


Just Add Some Friction

by Ennaess



Series: Might Ignite It [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aphrodisiacs, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, Feral Behavior, Fuck Or Die, Geralt has dark fantasies, I guess I should add now:, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mild sadism, Mutual Pining, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Touch Denial, all kinds of denial, also it's, and, i guess I made it a thing, if that’s even a thing, mild-mild-mild non-con role play, really fucked up trust exercise, sex potion, slow burn fuck or die, talk of non con but no actual non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22775572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ennaess/pseuds/Ennaess
Summary: Three days after the incident with the djinn, Jaskier mistakes a sex potion for water.  The Witcher informs him he needs skin-to-skin contact for the next seven hours, or he could die--and Geralt is the only warm body for miles.Jaskier is terrified that, under the spell, he'll betray himself.  That he'll tell Geralt how badly he wants him even when he's not hopped up on sex magic. But what he doesn't realize is Geralt harbors a dark desire of his own.  Desire he can never fulfill, no matter how Jaskier now begs for it."I will not destroy the one pure thing destiny has sent me: your trust."(An exploration of personal convictions and consent under dire circumstances. I have been told this is not your average Fuck-or-Die.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Might Ignite It [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678432
Comments: 1108
Kudos: 4673
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, daaaaymn





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters discuss non con in later chapters. There is the threat of non con, but no actual non con.
> 
> Title from "My Strange Addiction" by Billie Eilish.

Jaskier was dying. He was sure of it. Absolutely dying. This was the end of him. He couldn't possibly, in a million years, take one more step.

The sun blazed overhead, baking the ground, making the entire road smell of dust and grit. Nothing but small hills and scrub brush met them on all sides. A lone vulture swirled overhead, ready to dive the moment Jaskier's will failed him. The moment--

"Jaskier!" Geralt grunted at him from atop Roach. "Stop whining."

"I didn't make a sound," he said, throwing his arms wide, to show how put-upon he was, how unfair Geralt was. He took a funny step and his ankle rolled a little. 

Luckily, no harm done to anything but his pride.

"You think I can't hear the warbles in the back of your throat?"

"Ah, yes, yes, your great _Witcher_ hearing is so _magnificent_ I'm not even quiet when I'm quiet, I get it. Great. Fantastic. Why should I bother shutting up, then?"

"What, exactly, is the problem?"

"My feet hurt. I'm thirsty. I doubt there's an inn for miles. Three days ago I just about had my throat torn out by a djinn, and--"

"I can't do anything about your feet," Geralt stated, and Jaskier nearly interrupted with, _But Roach_ , when Geralt added, "But there's water in the saddle bag. I _told_ you not to drink all of yours."

"Yes, _well_ ," he said indignantly, hurrying to the horse's side, digging into the bag as it bounced along. He took awkward sidesteps, as Geralt refused to stop. 

His fingers wrapped around a glass flask, and he tore it free of the bag. Without noting that the bottle was unusually small and the liquid inside unusually foggy, he unstoppered the top and threw back its contents.

"Better?" Geralt asked without looking down.

"Better," Jaskier gasped, running the sleeve of his doublet across his chin to sop up an errant droplet. 

The liquid was cool, and slightly sweet, but nothing about it said _magic_ until several minutes later.

With the drink drank, everything around him seemed to improve. His feet didn't ache nearly as much. The dust of the road didn't seem quite so...dirt-like. He even noticed the flowers in bloom on some of the scraggly bushes. And bird song. Sweet birds. The vulture had moved on.

He swung his lute from his back and strummed a few times. Not really singing or composing, just enjoying the vibrations of the instrument in his hands. 

The sun still beat down, however. Even felt like it was getting hotter. His temples grew lightly damp, and he unbuttoned his doublet.

Heat rose in his cheeks.

An _internal_ heat. 

He held his lute close. Realized he liked the vibrations it made against his chest an unusual amount. And unnatural amount.

He stopped strumming.

"What's wrong now?" Geralt asked.

"N-nothing," he said quickly.

The tremor in his voice, coupled with the unusual denial, earned him a sharp look over Geralt's shoulder. "It's never 'nothing' with you," he said suspiciously.

"Did the water taste funny to you?" he asked, trying to sound conversational.

"No," Geralt replied, narrowing his gaze.

"Well, alright then, maybe it’s just me."

Geralt finally pulled Roach to a halt. Dismounting lightly, he went straight for the saddle bag. He rummaged inside, swiftly retrieving a water skin. The cap came off. He sniffed it, took a swig.

Jaskier watched him with a growing realization. A growing dread.

"Tastes fine," Geralt said.

Jaskier pushed his lute onto his back, then raised one hand flippantly, placing the other on his hip. "That's, uh--" he cleared his throat. "That's not the water I drank."

"It's the only water..." Geralt's lip curled as he trailed off. "You didn't." Back into the bag he dove, until he found the now very-empty flask. "Damnit, Jaskier!"

"That's not one of your potions, is it? Are my eyes going to go all," he waved a hand in front of his face, "Scary?"

"If you'd unstopped one of mine, I would have _known_ ," Geralt growled. "Instead, you drank one of hers. One that _has no fucking smell_."

"Hers? What hers? The--" he gestured back the way they'd come, "very sexy witch _hers_?"

"Yes," Geralt gritted. He closed his eyes before smashing the flask on the ground in frustration. 

"What are you doing with anything of hers?" Jaskier demanded, subconsciously pulling at his collar. Gods, it was hot.

"Do you remember anything about when I brought you to her? In what state we found her?"

"Hmm, yes, I seem to recall quite a few naked people pawing at you."

"They may or may not have been there willingly," Geralt said. "I can't be sure. So when I found a stash of sex potions, I _took_ them."

"You took them? For what purpose?" He unceremoniously threw off his lute as he spoke, then dropped his doublet on top of it. Then came the ties off the front of his undershirt.

Gods. It was _hot_.

"To dispose of them, _you arse_. I was going to destroy them as soon as we found a safe place to do so."

"Ah," Jaskier said flatly. 

"But then you _drank_ one."

"Not on _purpose_."

Setting his jaw, Geralt removed his gloves, shoving them in the bag. Then he fixed his eyes on Jaskier, began stalking toward him with a huff. Shards of the broken flask crunched under his boot.

"Geralt?" Jaskier asked cautiously. When the Witcher didn't halt his advance, Jaskier threw out a warning hand and scrambled backwards. " _GeraltGeraltGeralt_ , I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"Shut up," Geralt demanded, grabbing Jaskier by the out-flung wrist. 

At the touch, Jaskier stilled. His entire focus narrowed down to the way Geralt's fingers felt, cuffed around his arm. Cool, comforting. His callouses were divine against Jaskier's soft skin.

The bard's pulse quickened.

Geralt drew him close, and Jaskier came willingly, though he asked, "What are you doing?"

Geralt placed his other hand on the back of Jaskier's neck, and the bard couldn't help but draw in a sharp breath.

"Better?" Geralt asked, smugly.

It was. The heat had dissipated. "Um, yes?"

"You need to be touched--skin to skin," Geralt said frankly. "Will need for likely the next seven hours, at most. If we begin early, we may be able to stave off some of the more intense symptoms. Surely we can avoid the dangerous parts."

"Dangerous parts?"

"If you go without touch, you'll develop a fever. It could boil your brain."

"Oh, lovely. _Lovely_. Sex potions _boil brains_ , I'll jot that down for next time."

"The best way to deal with this would be to take you to a brothel and let you fuck it out," Geralt said. "But as you noted--"

"We're miles from the next town."

"Right, so no fucking it out," Geralt said, looking grim. 

Then he _let go_.

Jaskier's knees buckled, and he nearly fell to the ground. Geralt stepped away, returning to the saddle bags.

Heat flared through Jaskier's body, worse than before. "Where are you--what--?"

"We need to make camp." He stilled for a moment, averting his gaze. "And you shouldn't worry. We won't let it get out of hand."

"Out--out of hand?"

Geralt shot him a _look_. "You know what I mean."

"No, Geralt, I don’t. What's going to happen to me? What would happen, exactly, if you weren't here? Don't be light on the gory details, I know how you like to shelter me from--"

"By yourself, you'd likely die. If you were amongst people...eventually you'd let anyone fuck you."

"You mean I'd fuck anyone."

Geralt quirked his lips in a mirthless half-smile. "No, I don't. Subtle yet distinct difference."

Jaskier swallowed thickly, licked his lips. "Does that mean... I'll be asking you to..."

"Begging," Geralt corrected. "You'll beg before it's over."

"Oh. Oh, right..."

"I won't let it get out of hand," Geralt promised, returning to Jaskier's side, taking him by the wrist again. "I won't touch you that way. If we do this right, there's no need."

Something in Jaskier sank like a stone. He'd thought about Geralt in _that way_ before, of course. Loads of times. But they were just thoughts. Thoughts that were secret. Thoughts that were never supposed to become anything more. 

_You'll beg_.

He knew he was about to betray himself. And Geralt...

Geralt was just being a good friend. A good Witcher. Watching out for his oaf of a bard. 

Geralt was going to touch him. In ways he'd imagined a million times. But Geralt didn't...he didn't want...

"I'm sorry," Jaskier blurted. 

"We'll get you through this," Geralt said, giving him a reassuring nod. "Now help me with the bed roll."


	2. Chapter 2

They weren't halfway through setting up camp when Jaskier couldn't take it anymore and removed his undershirt, baring his sweat-slicked torso to the world. Geralt immediately stopped fiddling with--well, whatever he was fiddling with--and went to Jaskier's side, palms engulfing both wrists this time.

Jaskier understood why he'd chosen the wrists as his contact point. Wrists were safe. Distant.

 _Platonic_.

They'd picked a spot far off the road, behind a hill and curtained by a lone stand of thin trees. Any passing horseman or caravan should continue by without noticing them.

With the urges roiling in Jaskier's belly, that was definitely for the best.

Geralt's nostrils flared. He breathed deeply. "It's progressing fast, as I'd feared."

"How can you tell?" Jaskier asked, though he already knew the answer, could tell by the way Geralt tilted his head and lidded his eyes as his chest rose steadily. 

"I can smell your...arousal." His eyes snapped open, struck Jaskier with their gaze. Pinned him, really, to the spot. 

Or did Geralt's stare just feel intense because of the potion?

"I can smell your need peaking." He kept his gaze locked on Jaskier's. "Are you hard?"

"You can't just go around asking a man who accidently imbibed a sex potion _if he's hard_ ," Jaskier said, faux-scandalization heavy in his voice.

"Jaskier, I'm trying to save your life-- _again_ \--or didn't you notice? Answer me: is your cock hard?"

All Geralt had to do was look. He could take one glance at Jaskier's trousers and deduce for himself. But noooooooo, he wanted him to fucking _say it_.

"Yes, _Geralt_ ," Jaskier said, in the smallest voice imaginable, biting his lip, looking away. "My cock is hard."

"Hmm," was all the acknowledgment the admission earned him.

His erection had grown slowly. Steadily. He'd been hoping for it to go unnoticed for as long as possible, if only so he could avoid whatever sad or clinical look Geralt would give him when he found out.

Because he wouldn't look at Jaskier's hard cock the way Jaskier wanted him to look at his hard cock, sex potion or no.

And that hurt. How could it not?

He'd been so good, keeping his desires to himself for this long. He'd been careful. He hadn't touched himself to thoughts of Geralt when they were together, for fear Witchers could secretly read minds. He hadn't given any indication he wanted the other man, besides the occasional off-color joke. When Geralt had stripped for his baths, when he'd slid into tubs--letting Jaskier wash his arms and comb his hair, no less--Jaskier had averted his hungry eyes.

He'd done everything in his power to avoid an unexplainable erection in front of Geralt, and now _this_.

Geralt released him again, and Jaskier bit down on a cry. Every time Geralt touched him and then let go, it felt like his lifeline was being pulled away. Like the one thing that could anchor him to this world was denied him. 

The Witcher began removing his armor. "Lay down on the bed roll."

His cock definitely gave an interested twitch at _that_. "Fine," he said petulantly, as though it were a great burden. But he didn't move, his attention fixated on the way the other man's clothes were coming off.

"I know I'm not your first choice," Geralt said, dropping his pauldrons to the dirt. 

_Oh how wrong you are_.

When Jaskier said nothing, Gerlat looked at him pointedly, slipping the last of his armor over his head. "Has the potion stolen your words already?" His expression was pure concern.

 _You've stolen my words_ , Jaskier's brain provided, but his lips denied. _You've stolen my everything_.

"Lay down," Geralt repeated when Jaskier remained still and mute.

He finally did as he was told, body humming, skin prickling, fingers trembling.

He watched from his back as Geralt pulled his shirt up over his shoulders, leaving his torso as naked as Jaskier's.

"Fuck," was all Jaskier could muster, oh-so helpfully.

"Hmm," Geralt replied poignantly. He kneeled down, looming, and as he did, Jaskier's hands raised of their own accord to meet him, to brush lightly at one pectoral. A zing of sensation jolted through that light contact, and he surged forward, but once again Geralt caught him, steadied him. 

Held him at bay. 

"You will want things," Geralt said carefully, warning him, instructing him. "And I won't give them to you."

"How is that any different than normal?" he said breathlessly, unthinkingly. 

"This is serious," Geralt said, as though Jaskier didn't know it. "I'm trying to reassure you. You will ask, and I need you to know, now, while you still have your wits about you, that you can trust me."

"Of course I trust you," he said earnestly. "I always trust you."

"To your detriment, I'm sure," Geralt said, under his breath. Then he leaned forward, his white hair falling like a curtain around his shoulders, strands of it cascading over his brow. He propped himself up beside Jaskier on one arm, then brushed a careful hand up the side of the other man's neck, into his hair.

The bard leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. 

"Tell me what you're feeling," Geralt prompted. "It'll help guide me."

Jaskier made a deal with himself to be as _dis_ honest about his intimate feelings for as long as he could. "Hot," he said. Not a lie, and not intimate knowledge. Best to pepper in bits of the obvious with his untruths.

"Mmm. What else?"

He found Geralt's eyes again. Those golden irises were fixed on him with a starling intensity, studying his face, searching his gaze.

"Scared," he said. Also not untrue.

Geralt pursed his lips for a moment, as though angry. Angry at what, Jaskier had no idea. But his face soon softened again.

"And? For a man who never stops talking you have chosen a most inconvenient time for stoicism."

 _I could write a million songs about your eyes_ , Jasiker almost said. But he bit his tongue. _A million songs about them gold, a million songs about them black. A million million million_. "I feel--" he breathed. "Gods, I feel--" He squirmed under that gaze.

Geralt's hand trailed from his hair to his throat, palm draping over his adam's apple, cupping under his chin. Another attempt to calm him, steady him. 

But it had exactly the opposite effect. 

Jaskier's mouth went dry. His cock strained in his trousers. _Yes. Yes yes yes_. He put his hand over the top of Geralt's and _pressed_.

"Harder," he whispered.

A dark look rumbled across Geralt's expression, but he drove it away quickly, that same anger from before flashing over his face. He retrieved his hand--startled--and Jaskier whimpered.

"No," Jaskier said shakily. "Put it back. I...I want it."

Geralt paused.

 _You'll want things, and I won't give them to you_.

But this, it seemed, was not one of those things. With a slight tremble, Geralt slid his palm back into place across Jaskier's throat. And this time, he gripped it tenderly. 

Jaskier moaned and let his eyes roll back.

Geralt turned his face away, gritting his teeth.

Jaskier's head was growing foggy. Hazy with the need for contact--skin to skin, just as Geralt said. 

He had Geralt's big hand on him, and it could be splayed _anywhere_. Carefully, he encouraged it down, onto his chest. Geralt let him direct his fingers, sliding over Jaskier's naked torso wherever he nudged him. Into the curls of hair at his breastbone. Over his pectorals, his nipples. Over his ribs and abdominal muscles. Into the treasure trail on his belly.

Those thick, clever digits petted him lightly, gave him the touch he craved.

Geralt only resisted when Jaskier tried to push his fingers beneath the hem of his breeches. 

"No," Geralt chided, claiming his hand back.

"Please," Jaskier whispered. His skin was alight. His dick throbbed. And Geralt was so close. His own heat so palpable, his skin supple, his scent intoxicating. "I need _more_."

Geralt bit his lip, looked like he was wrestling with himself. "I told you, I won't touch you that way."

"I don’t care what you said," he bit out. Then shook his head. Damnit, he was trying to remain composed. To keep Geralt in the dark about his wants--his completely-and-unabashedly-not-related-to-the-potion wants. He'd spill his guts because of the magic, he knew. But not yet. He couldn't admit to everything yet. "No, I--I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Geralt said.

"Please, just--" He rolled up on his side, reaching his own shaky hand out for Geralt's hair, for the back of his head. Gently, he pulled their foreheads together. It was like a cool rag to his fevered temples. 

They both closed their eyes.

For a moment they did nothing but breathe each other's air. 

It was tender. Intimate.

Then a wave of need hit Jaskier. Dense, undeniable. Geralt smelled of musk and grit in the best way. His very breath was a draw, a tease across Jaskier's lips. Pleasurable want thrummed up his groin and he tilted down, capturing Geralt's mouth in a hungry kiss.

There was a beat where Geralt did nothing. 

Then a beat where he matched Jaskier's kiss, hunger for hunger, it felt. The Witcher pushed hard, his lips claiming. The White Wolf tasted of the wind and the forest. The tip of his tongue darted out--

And then he was pulling away, rolling his head to the side, _denying_ Jaskier.

"Please," Jaskier whimpered again, before Geralt could say anything.

"No," Geralt said firmly. He didn’t get up, didn't tear Jaskier's hand from his head. Just kept his mouth out of reach. 

"Why?" Jaskier asked, his pain evident.

"You're not yourself."

"But I am, I am more myself than..."

Geralt's palm came back to him, settled in the dip of his waist. He lost his words.

"I told you you could trust me," Geralt said.

"Trust you to torture me."

"That's not fair," Geralt's voice was...sad.

"Then _touch me_. Dear gods, touch me."

"How are you feeling?"

 _Unwanted_.

"...Hot," he managed.

Geralt grunted, then rose up enough to take hold of Jaskier and flip him over, so that his back curved against Geralt's chest. The Witcher pulled him close, fit them together, his sharp chin at the junction of Jaskier's neck, one hand splayed over his middle, the other arm cradling Jaskier's head. "Better?"

Jaskier nearly sobbed. It was so good, yet still not enough. 

"Better," he gasped.


	3. Chapter 3

They lay together like that for who knew how long. Jaskier could no longer sense the passage of time. Everything was wrapped up in the contact points between him and Geralt. The way his shoulders pressed to Geralt's pectorals. The way Geralt's hand roamed soothingly over his middle. The way Geralt nuzzled the bolt of his jaw when he whined or squirmed.

The way Geralt's chest sent vibrations into Jaskier's bones when he spoke, when he grunted. 

And he grunted every time Jaskier took hold of his wrist and tried to push his hand inside his trousers. 

Jaskier's ability to censor himself had long since flown away. "Please, _fuck_ , Geralt. I need you. I want you. Touch me. Touch my cock. I've always wanted, I've always needed--"

"Shhh," Geralt soothed, easily keeping his hand away from Jaskier's dick, despite Jaskier's death-grip on his wrist, despite his squirming. "You don’t know what you're saying."

"You have no idea what...how long...Gods, Geralt, you have no idea. I'm good at pretending. So good. But you could have me whenever you wanted. _I've_ wanted you from the moment I saw you in that tavern. I want you now. The warmth of you, the scent of you, the _girth_ of you. I've had so many fantasies, of you, bending me over that first tavern table. Please, fuck m--"

"Shut _up_ ," Geralt barked into his ear.

"You asked me to talk. You asked me to tell you how I feel."

"Sensations," Geralt growled. "I need to know the sensations you're encountering. I don't need whatever stories the potion will have you spinning to get me to...to... _give in_."

Jaskier squirmed more, began to struggle, to try to pull away from the Witcher so he could take control, could get what he wanted. Geralt held him tighter, rolled forward a bit so that some of his weight was pressed downward on top of the bard. Jaskier's cheek pushed into the bed roll, and he could feel his fringe plaster to his forehead with sweat.

"You said I'd beg," he reminded him breathlessly. "Well, I'm begging."

"No, you're not," Geralt said. "You haven't hit the worst of it yet. This is you asking."

"How can you tell the difference?"

"You haven't tried to guilt me into it. When you tell me you'll die without my fat cock, then I'll know you're begging."

Jaskier shivered. "Will I?"

"Beg?"

"No. Will I die...without your fat cock?"

" _No_." But the way he said it was dark, bitter. Like it wasn't just Jaskier he was saying no to. "This will be enough."

 _No it won't. No it_ _isn't_. "It's not. It's not enough. It might be if you just touch me, touch me _there_ ," Jaskier pleaded. "I won't ask for your _gods-damned_ fat cock if you just touch mine!"

He writhed against Geralt, who held him firmly, like a vice, and growled, "No." 

Geralt's free hand rose to Jaskier's cheek, then forehead. "You're burning up."

"See. _See_. I need more. I want more. Believe me. Please, I want it. _I_ want it, it's not the potion talking. It's not. Tell me what I need to say to make you believe me."

"There's nothing you can say that will make me betray you," Geralt said, hand returning to the bard's cheek, then gripping his chin. Jaskier could hear him gritting his teeth. "Nothing. So be quiet."

"Betray me. Do it."

"Shut up. I made you a promise."

"Damn your promise, I never asked for it!"

"You didn't realize you needed to. You didn't understand this would happen."

"That what would happen? That I would lose my inhibitions and start telling you every dirty little thought I've ever had about you? That I would finally confess to wanting a piece of that gorgeous arse? Everyone else has had you, why not me?"

Geralt's fingers stuttered against his chin. 

Jaskier craned his neck, turning to look upwards, to find Geralt's eyes. He kept talking, put a biting, cruel twist on every word. "Not three days ago I saw you _fucking_." A sick pleasure boiled through him as Geralt winced. "I watched you fuck her, and I fucking _liked it_. If that damned elf hadn't pulled me away, I would have whipped out my fucking cock and touched myself. I would have spurted hot fucking come all over--"

With a roar, Geralt slapped his hand over Jaskier's mouth to staunch the flow of words. He bent his face close to Jaskier's, his hair brushing over the bard's cheek. "Shut. _Up_." His words were barely words, only slightly more coherent than a gravel-filled rumble.

Geralt shifted his hips slightly, and then Jaskier felt it. His eyes went wide.

Geralt was hard.

How long had he been hard?

Geralt grimaced, turned his head to the side and swore at himself. "Fuck." He took a deep breath through his nose, pursing his lips, anger changing the line of his shoulders. "Gods damn you, Jaskier. I kill this--this _thing_ in me, every waking moment, and then you have to go and fucking drink a fucking _sex potion_."

He removed his hand from Jaskier's mouth to slide it, frustrated, over his own.

Jaskier didn’t quite understand what he meant. But he knew he was free to plead again. "Please, fuck me. Fuck me like you fucked her."

Something in Geralt _broke_.

Growling deep in his throat, Geralt shoved Jaskier onto his belly, lay flush on top of him. He buried his face in Jaskier's hair and held the bard's wrists above his head, pinning him down. His breath was hot, heavy, and his heart pounded a frantic rhythm against Jaskier's spine. His heavy cock slid perfectly against the cleft of Jaskier's backside. 

"Gods, yes," Jaskier choked out.

"I will not give in," Geralt said, even as Jaskier bucked under him, trying to get the Witcher to rut that perfect, clothed cock against him. "You would never forgive me."

"I'll never forgive you if you don't shut up and stick your fucking dick in me. My arse, my _throat_ , wherever you want."

Another rumble from Geralt, and then his nose was against Jaskier's neck, scenting him. Then lips. Teeth. Tongue. 

Jaskier moaned. 

Geralt allowed himself one angry thrust of his hips, and then he was up, leaving Jaskier's side entirely. All points of contact, gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter for now. Will update within the week.

Geralt stood, turning his back on Jaskier, walking away toward the trees. 

Jaskier rolled over, his back bowing against the bed roll as the fire returned. "Geralt!" he pleaded, but his voice was thin, strained. 

Geralt stopped walking, stood a few meters away, hands on his hips, staring out into nothing. He looked like he was trying to center himself, trying to push something vicious back into its cage. The muscles of his back were taut, the tendons in his neck strained. 

Wobbly, Jaskier willed himself to his knees, then his feet. 

He stumbled after Geralt, sweaty hand slipping onto the Witcher's bare waist, clasping at him for dear life.

In one swift movement, Geralt turned, caught Jaskier by the throat, and walked him backward until his spine made rough contact with one of the scraggly trees. 

Surprised by the coarse handling, by the way Geralt was glaring at him, Jaskier's eyes went wide, his expression vulnerable. "Please," he said once more. "I'm _weak_."

"And so am I!" Geralt snarled. "And I will not take you against your will! No matter how badly I want to!"

"It's not against my will." He bit his lip, put one hand on Geralt's wrist, reached for the thickness of his body with the other.

Clenching his jaw, Geralt came closer, knowing Jaskier _required_ the contact. He let the pained man pull him flush against him.

The bard could feel the neediness in his own eyes, in the way his mouth hung open, in the slant of his eyebrows. Knew what kind of a picture he must make. Wanton. 

And Geralt's gaze was deep. Dark. It saw that neediness and it _wanted back_.

Jaskier licked his lips purposefully, invitingly. 

Geralt took a deep breath and dove in, claiming Jaskier's mouth, nipping, seeking, delving deep with his tongue. Jaskier went weak in the knees. He only remained upright because of Geralt's hold on his windpipe.

Breaking the kiss, Geralt went for the buttons on Jaskier's trousers with his empty hand. Once they were all undone, he growled, "Take yourself out." 

"Wh-what?"

"Touch yourself," Geralt demanded. "Our... _friendship_ will never survive if I touch you. You'd never forgive me for what I'd do to you if given half a chance. But perhaps you'll forgive me if I tell you this: all the terrible things that cross my mind. All the ways in which I want to claim you."

Jaskier's hand trembled as it dropped from Geralt's wrist and into his trousers, landing, blessedly, on his thick, straining cock. He did as Geralt commanded and revealed himself, letting the dark, purple shaft of it free between them.

Geralt's eyes dropped to it, and he wet his lips as precum beaded on the tip. His grip on Jaskier's throat increased.

"Stroke yourself," he demanded, eyes half-lidded. He breathed deeply, openly reveling in Jaskier's scent.

The bard took himself in hand, wishing it was Geralt instead. "You were saying?" he prompted, voice nearly imperceptible. He didn’t want to break the spell. Didn't want Geralt to change his mind. To leave him standing there, wanting and wondering.

Geralt grunted and pressed closer, so that Jaskier's knuckles scraped against his lower belly with every stroke. So that the very tip of Jaskier's cock could find blessed, brief contact with his skin as it bobbed with every downward slide.

Jaskier wanted to thrust against Geralt's belly, but daren't.

"You trust me," Geralt said, closing his eyes for a moment. "But you shouldn't. Everyone else knows not to. But you, you idiot--" he growled. "You follow me around for weeks at a time and I can't shake you. You with that innocent, puppy-dog stare. Too stupid to know you should fear every moment we're together. That any second...I could falter and turn on you.

"I might kill monsters day in and day out, but there is one monster I have to slay again and again." He rolled his hips against Jaskier's leg, so there could be no doubt as to what he meant. "This monster hunts _you_ , hungers for you. It stalks through my mind, takes hold of my body, day and night. And If I ever rest, if I ever let my vigilance against it drop even for a moment--It'll have you. It won't matter where we are. The woods. An inn. In a court with you singing your little lungs out."

"I--"

"No," Geralt growled, baring his teeth, pressing harder on Jaskier's throat, shutting him up. "You don’t understand. It won't _matter_. What you say or do, want or do not want, _won't matter_. Not to this monster. This monster wants you to run. Wants you to fight. Wants you to say no."

Jaskier's hand on his dick stopped, clutching hard, staving off his orgasm as it threatened to surge forward.

"I imagine you pinned beneath me," Geralt continued. "Naked--after I've torn off all your clothes. I imagine you struggling so I can pepper your skin with bruises as I control you. I want to see the terror on your face when you realize you can't escape me." He leaned in close to rumble in Jaskier's ear. "When your eyes are sad or scared, the monster lusts for you most." 

Jaskier's eyes rolled back in his head, his cock spurting and impressive dribble of precome.

Geralt stepped back, kept his hand on Jaskier's throat, but pulled his body off him. "I can't let it hurt you. But here you are, _inviting it_ to the surface. Touching me. Tasting me. Calling out for me. I need to protect you. But all I can think about is yanking down your trousers, shoving your face into the dirt, and riding your slutty little arse until you beg me to stop!"

Jaskier gasped, grunted, as his orgasm took him. He shot far, splattering Geralt's abdomen with his come. The sight of it threatened to make him pass out. His pleasure spiraled, up, up, up. "Fuck, _Geralt_!"

The Witcher didn't so much as flinch while Jaskier painted hot, white stripes over his tight stomach. When it was over, he stared down at himself, at the mess his bard had made. After a moment, he took his free hand and dragged his fingertips through the slickness on his belly. He held them up to his nose, let them play lightly over his lips. He shut his eyes and groaned and Jaskier saw the darkness again, the anger. Understood, now, what it meant. 

"I will not destroy the one pure thing Destiny has sent me:" Geralt said without opening his eyes. "Your trust."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, new chapter already because I am *weak.*
> 
> Thank you for all of your lovely comments and kudos thus-far!

"No matter how badly everything in me wishes to break it," he added, opening his eyes. They shone with a feral need. He took his come-soaked fingers and pressed them against Jaskier's lips, breath hitching as the bard sucked them swiftly into his mouth.

Groaning, he ripped his hand away as soon as Jaskier started to lick, to lavish too much attention on him. "I _want_ you against your will, Jaskier. When I fantasize about having you, that's how it goes. You run from me. You deny me. But you can’t get away. And now you're here, like _this_. Helpless before me.

"And it's _dangerous_. Because I know the potion is making you say things. I know you have no control. It's giving me both a way in and a way out. I could fuck you." He ran his wet hand through Jaskier's hair, grabbing, pulling. "I could fuck you now, over and over, and later say it's because you needed it. Or because you _asked_ for it. I could do every dirty thing my cock desires and take no blame. And I would love it even more _because_ you lack control. Because you're not in your right mind. 

"And I'm telling you this so that I _can't_ get away with it. So that if I snap before this is over--If I hurt you--" He shook his head, snarled at himself. "I _won't_. But _if_...then you won't be confused about your pain. You'll know it was wrong of me. You won't blame yourself, dismiss my crimes against you. You will at least know enough to run as far away from me as possible the first chance you get." He started to pull away.

"Geralt," Jaskier said softly, both hands going to the wrist that held him, pressing it tighter, keeping the hold firm. "You could never hurt me, not really."

"I almost killed you with the djinn!"

"An accident. Not the same." Gods, he was still so hard. His dick still throbbed, still strained. "No matter how dark your thoughts are, your fantasies, I know you. You would never."

"Wouldn't I?" He crowded in close again, raging, ignoring how Jaskier's wet dick slid against his come-stained stomach in a way Jaskier himself could _not_ ignore. "I itch for it. Every time I'm near you, I ache to push you into some dark corner and ignore your protests."

"I wouldn't protest."

Geralt shoved hard, then let go of Jaskier. He turned away again, clenching both fists, knuckles white with the strain. "Why do you think I keep you walking?" he demanded. "Won't let you on Roach unless it's a necessity? Because I know even if you begin the ride behind me, you'll end it in front of me. Between my legs, where you belong."

Jaskier tried to hold onto the tree behind him, tried to remain upright, but everything was too much. And the heat--oh gods, the _fire_. He fell forward, on all fours.

"And when you bathe...when we find a stream and you start divesting yourself of your clothes without warning--carelessly, _recklessly_ \--" Geralt moaned, his memory clearly providing him with plenty of examples. "You laugh and splutter as you slip into the brook, oblivious to the danger you're in. It would be so easy, then, to take you. To twist you around in the water--to keep you off balance, your footing unsure. I could hold you under. Steal your breath as I steal my pleasure."

Jaskier shivered. He kept his eyes down, his gaze in the dirt. He couldn't look at his friend as he asked his next question. He both needed the answer and feared it. "Have you ever...hurt someone...in--in _that way_...before?" He couldn't say the word. Didn't know what he would do if Geralt said yes...if he'd...

"No!" Geralt cried harshly. Then, more solemnly, " _No_."

"Then why do you fear you'll do it to me?"

"Because this monster was birthed specifically for you. I've never thought of this before. I've never wanted this before."

Geralt's knees hit the ground hard in front of Jaskier's downcast eyes. The Witcher caught the bard's face forcefully in one hand, made him look up, made him arch his spine to comply. "But oh, how I want it. I yearn for your _nos_ , your _please stops_. Pretty bruises on your body." He thumbed at his mouth. "Your lip, split." He forced Jaskier to bare his neck. "Already, I've left marks on you. Your pain, your fear, is my addiction. And it's not because...not because I wish you harm. I would kill anyone else who so much as breathed their desire to do to you what I desire to do to you. I don’t want you to suffer. I want you to suffer _under me_."

Jaskier should have realized from the start that there was an undercurrent of sadism running through his Witcher. Their first day together, Geralt had given him one hell of a gut-punch. But then, by the same token, Geralt should have realized: that gut-punch hadn't scared him away.

He invited manhandling from Geralt at every turn. He wasn't averse to playing rough.

His cock throbbed, twitched. He needed Geralt on him, in any way Geralt wanted it.

Jaskier made his face hard, rolled his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. "Fuck me," he demanded. Not a plea, not soft. Angry. Curt.

" _No_ ," Geralt barked, releasing his face with a shove.

Jaskier let his head snap to the side, as though that shove had been a slap. "Fuck me," he spat. "Fuck me, you _monster_. Come on! I'm vulnerable. I'm _greedy_. You can do anything you want to me and I can't _stop you_. Is taking what you want by _force_ really so beneath the _Butcher_ of _Blaviken_?"

Geralt stood suddenly, his face gone blank, eyes fixed on Jaskier in a hard, wide stare. 

For a moment, Jaskier thought he'd gone too far. He knew how angry the title _Butcher_ made Geralt. How much it hurt him. Maybe the Witcher would just turn on his heel and leave him to die.

Instead, Geralt looked to the side for a moment, considering, then sneered. "See? _Now_ you're begging."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are wonderful, all! Glad to see this is striking a chord.

A little thrill shivered its way down Jaskier's spine. He'd found them: the words that touched Geralt just so. He could see it. The crueler he was, the more difficult it would be for the White Wolf to resist.

"Do it," he insisted through clenched teeth. "Because it's _not_ beneath you, is it?" He let his lip tremble, as though he were just coming to a terrible realization. "You were going to force me from the moment you touched me. It's been your plan the whole time."

"No," Geralt denied. He didn't move, didn't twitch. Like he was rooted to the spot.

"Hasn't it?" Jaskier asked, a quiver in his voice. The more he made himself the victim, the more the _thing_ in Geralt would stir. "Perhaps this _whole thing_ was your plan--"

" _Never_."

"You could have warned me about the potions," he reasoned. "You could have labeled them. You want me to believe the potion had no smell, but I know you can smell fucking _water_ , Geralt!"

Jaskier could hardly believe the words were his, that he was accusing Geralt of something so terrible--something he _knew_ wasn't true.

But if it had the right effect, if it got him what he wanted...

The Witcher's breath came higher, faster, but he held himself steady. He looked like he was calculating, trying to decide if Jaskier really thought so little of him, or if it was the potion latching onto what drove him. "I didn’t--"

"Didn't _what_?" Jaskier demanded. "Didn't think I'd figure it out?" He tried to stand, found it difficult. 

Geralt made an abortive move in his direction, as though to help him up, but stopped. Jaskier could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that the Witcher didn't trust himself at the moment. Didn't trust himself to touch and then _let go_.

_Good_.

"You thought I'd be stupid enough to buy this concocted reality of yours? Your pretty tales of _pity_ and _nobility_. Of barely-checked _frustration_. You leave me here on the ground burning, wanting, all the while letting me know just how much you're resisting, so that when you finally take me--like you've been planning from the start--"

" _That's not true_!" Geralt barked.

He made it upright and stumbled toward Geralt, who took several steps back. "So that when you finally do it, I'll believe it hurts you too. Hurts us both. You _promised_ , after all. And now you'll have to break that promise. But the promise was to lull me. To make me stay. To make me feel safe--at least until it's too late. But the whole thing's a lie."

" _Shut. Up_ ," Geralt gritted out. And, for the first time, there was fear there. Geralt wasn't just angry, he was afraid.

Perhaps afraid there was some grain of truth to the bard's words. 

Perhaps afraid that his resolve was crumbling.

Perhaps Jaskier had him right where he wanted him.

Geralt took another step back, and Jaskier followed.

"And you'll do more than fuck me, won't you?" Jaskier accused. "You've said as much already. You won't bed me tenderly--like I'm some sad, silly girl losing her maidenhead. No. It'll be painful. It'll be _brutal_. Because that's what you are: brutal. So, come on!" He yelled in his face. "Brutalize me!" He shoved at his chest. "Take what you want, Witcher!"

Geralt parried with one hand as Jaskier went to shove him again, knocking the bard lightly away. Jaskier returned with a punch at his jaw. Geralt easily caught the swing, yanked Jaskier to him by a manacle-like grip on his forearm.

"I won't fight you!" Geralt roared in his face. "And I _won't_ fuck you."

"Yes, you will," Jaskier said meekly, the pain in his voice real. His lips were mere inches from Geralt's mouth, his eyes searching Geralt's gaze. "You're just drawing it out. Drawing it out so I'll be far gone when you do it. So that I'll be in the most pain and it'll bring you the most pleasure."

He dropped his gaze, dropped his forehead to Geralt's chest. "Please," he whispered. "Stop torturing me--it _hurts_. Everything hurts. I feel like I'm dying."

Geralt let go of Jaskier's arm to wrap both of his around the bard, to pull him beneath his chin in a tight embrace. "I won’t let that happen," he rumbled.

"Then give in," Jaskier whispered. "Not to the potion. To me. Give in _to me_."


	7. Chapter 7

One of Geralt's hands stroked up and down Jaskier's spine before pulling away. "You're sweating like a horse."

"I'm sweating like a man whose brain is about to boil," he mumbled.

"You should have just let me lay with you," Geralt grumbled. "You shouldn't have tried to goad me into more. _I_ shouldn't have _let you_ goad me."

"I'm not in my right mind," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I shouldn't have...shouldn't have said those things to you. Geralt, I didn’t mean...I know you'd never...I just _want_ , so badly. Want you. Any way you'll have me. Lying next to you wasn't enough. _Almost_ having you could never be enough."

Geralt took him by the shoulders, held him away, looked him in the eye. "It would have been. But now..." He let his eyes rake over Jaskier's entire body. From booted feet to bare cock to flushed cheeks and sweaty fringe. Geralt's face twisted--in anger, in frustration, in mild horror. " _Fuck_ ," he spat. "I made you a _promise_.” 

"What's more important--" Jaskier asked. "Your promise, or my life?"

"I shouldn't have to choose!"

"No, you shouldn't!" Jaskier shouted. "And yet...here we are."

The shout made Jaskier's vision dapple at the edges. The effort of it turned everything fuzzy. His lips tingled as though he'd indulged too much in dwarven drink.

Geralt's grip on his shoulders tightened. "Why is it that no one else on the Continent can drive me as nearly-insane as you? All my years roaming the country and only _you_ could bring me to the brink like this. Only you, you insufferable, peacocking, son of a--"

Jaskier felt light-headed. His toes were numb, his skull too heavy. His head lolled to the side like all the bones in his neck had gone. His feet went out from under him.

Geralt caught him before he plummeted to the ground. "Jaskier!"

Jaskier couldn't reply right away. The sky was spinning.

Geralt shook him once, violently, trying to keep him conscious. "Jaskier? _Nonononono_." He clutched him tightly, hauled him upright, and spread one hand between his shoulders and the other over his hip. He pressed against him, hard, as though he might fuse them together. "I shouldn't have left your side," he breathed. Jaskier felt warm lips press against his temple. "You’re the one under the spell, not me. I should have had more control. I know this isn't you. None of this is you. The entreaties or the accusations. No matter how deserving I am of the latter."

Geralt's touch was helping. The feeling came back to Jaskier's extremities. He didn't think he was going to faint anymore.

"No, th-the former," he said, finding his footing again, skirting his arms around the other man's waist. Geralt let him shuffle into place, let their embrace become comfortable, easy. "I mean, the entreaties. It's not simply...it's not only the potion talking."

"Hmm," Geralt replied. "You'd like me to believe that."

" _Yes_ ," Jaskier emphasized, "I would." 

He palmed at Geralt's lower back, ran his fingertips over the scars he encountered there. Every bit of the two of them that could be pressed together was--pecks, stomachs...cocks. Jaskier couldn't help himself--he rolled his hips against Geralt's. When Geralt didn't immediately knock him away--or even loosen his grip--he did it again. And again. Harder, seeking out that blissful friction. 

Gods, it was heaven. 

And he immediately felt cooler. His head _clearer_.

He bent down to mouth at Geralt's collarbone as he rutted. Concern for the bard might have temporarily subdued the Witcher's cock, but it was coming to life again under Jaskier's insistent thrusts. 

"I said I wouldn't let this get out of hand," Geralt whispered. 

"It's not in hand yet," Jaskier said suggestively. "But it could be." He slid one palm around to grope at the front of Geralt's trousers. To feel the hard length of him, so close yet so far.

"I shouldn't have let it progress this far--If I’d had more control, you wouldn't be in such danger now."

"Shhh," Jaskier tried to soothe—a mimicry of Geralt hushing him earlier. He let the heel of his hand press down just so, reveling in the way it made Geralt's breath hitch. "Less talking, more fucking."

"I made you a promise," Geralt said sternly, his face solemn. "And now...now I have to break it."

 _"Oh, thank the gods_ ," Jaskier sighed. Finally, he'd beaten Geralt. One of them had to lose this petty war of fuck/no. At least the Witcher had seen reason--had caved to his baser desires--before Jaskier had passed out.

He expected to be manhandled, then. To be flipped around, shoved to the ground. He expected to be taken exactly as Geralt had said he'd take him: face-down in the dirt.

Instead...Geralt dropped to his knees. 

He held onto Jaskier's thighs, looked up at him a hair's-breadth away from his straining cock.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Jaskier demanded.

"Choosing the lesser of two evils." He leaned forward, let his slightly-parted lips butt against the head of Jaskier's cock. "I told you I wouldn't touch you that way, because I am what you say I am. A monster. I _would_ brutalize you if given a chance at your arse. If I start, I don't trust that I'll stop. Not with you in this...state.

"But there's more than one _that way_ , isn't there? This gives you more control. Lets you get at least some of what you need without me taking anything from you. This might be forgivable. Not me fucking you. You, fucking me." He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and nuzzled the base of Jaskier's cock.

"Melitele's tits," the bard cursed. His knees went weak again, he had to lean on Geralt's shoulders for support.

Geralt pulled back to look at him. "Stop your blathering and fuck my mouth."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are giving me life.

He wanted to dive forward, wanted to grab Geralt's hair and yank him onto his cock. The Witcher was just _sitting there_ \--mouth open, waiting for it. Precome dribbled down from Jaskier's slit, and Geralt's eyes fluttered for a moment as he took in the scent. 

Gods, he needed him. And he could have him. Right this moment.

But an idea struck him. He wasn't sure if it was because of the potion's influence, or his own sick desires--a new found need to _push_ Geralt.

He'd _liked_ being able to goad a reaction out of his White Wolf. For all Geralt's stoicism, Jaskier's words could move him. There was power there, a thrill there.

What more could a poet ask for?

Jaskier held himself as steady as he could--though his legs trembled--and said lightly: "No."

Geralt glared at him. "What?"

"I said _no_."

"Damnit, you idiot--"

"That's _not_ what I _want_ ," he said firmly, "I told you what I want. Your _fat cock_."

"You said you wouldn't _need_ my _gods-damned fat cock_ if I just touched you _there_."

"Oh so _now_ you believe something I said?"

"I'm _going_ to suck your cock," he gritted out, as though the matter was finished, the discussion over. "You'll die otherwise."

Jaskier could feel droplets of sweat rolling down his chest, his back, his temples. He could quench the fire so easily. All he had to do was roll his hips forward. He could stop the fever, stop the burn. Geralt was right, after all.

"Will I?" He asked, trying to keep his voice light, casual--even a little flippant. But he could feel the heat soaring again. Small tremors worked their way through his hands, and he clutched them to his sides.

"You just _told_ me you were dying. You nearly passed out."

Geralt leaned in, made to put his lips around the head of Jaskier's cock, but Jaskier pulled back.

"No," he said again.

It hurt. Oh gods it _hurt_. Why was he doing this again? Why was he denying himself when Geralt had finally, finally deigned to touch him _there_? And with his mouth, no less.

With an angry grunt, Geralt moved his hands from Jaskier's thighs to his bum, pushing his trousers down further so that it was fully exposed, grabbing hard enough to leave bruises, yanking him closer.

Yes. Yes-- _that's_ why.

"No, Geralt. Geralt, _stop_."

Geralt paused, lips pursed, jaw tight. His fingertips dug deeper into Jaskier's backside. He clearly knew what his bard was doing, but couldn't bring himself to let the game begin. Couldn't let go of his fear, of his dread. If Jaskier said stop, he had to make himself stop. 

And yet, Jaskier's fever--

His gaze went all confused for a moment.

"Geralt," Jaskier said softly, reassuringly. How could he make him see? See that it was alright? That despite his fantasies, his urges, he never in a million lifetimes would have taken Jaskier without his consent, and Jaskier knew it, even if Geralt himself didn't fully believe it. He placed one hand on Geralt's cheek, trailing it downwards until he was thumbing at Geralt's bottom lip. "You've _earned_ my trust," he insisted. "A monster never would have chosen the _lesser_ evil. A monster would have been on me from the beginning. You're not a monster."

Geralt tossed his head to the side, knocking Jasiker's hand away. He refused to look him in the eye. 

Jaskier gave him a moment before grabbing him by the chin, forcing his gaze up. "You're not a monster," he said again. "But if I say no--now--if I tell you to stop, _now_...you'll be _my_ monster, won't you?"

Geralt's face was unreadable. Every bit of his body was taut, wound tight. His golden eyes blazed with his pupils blown wide.

"You have to put your wonderous mouth on my cock or I'll die," Jaskier said, nearly laughing at how ridiculous it sounded, no matter how true it was. "And you should enjoy it."

"No, I shouldn't."

"What's the harm?"

" _What's the harm_?" he repeated, as though he could hardly accept that Jaskier's mind was _that_ clouded. "The harm comes later. The harm comes when you wake up tomorrow and realize what I've said to you, what I've done to you--what I could _still_ do to you--"

Jaskier saw the fear in Geralt's eyes again, and a new revelation hit him. This time he truly understood Geralt's trepidation. No _perhaps_ about it.

"You're not going to lose me."

The Witcher's lip trembled, he looked away. "Most likely, I already have. You just don't know it yet."

Jaskier sank to his knees. The pain in Geralt's voice was too much to bear. The man truly believed it--that tomorrow, his bard would be gone. Jaskier took him by the face again, both hands cupping lovingly at his jaw. "No," he said softly. "I'm not leaving you."

"Pretty words given me by a petty potion," Geralt said flatly, his expression under control again, his feelings locked behind clenched teeth and a smooth brow. "Steals your dignity and my sanity all in one go."

Why were Witchers so _infuriating_?

"You stupid, stupid man. You could have left me by the side of the road. You could have dragged me, panting and sick, as close to civilization as possible in hopes of making this someone else's problem. At any moment, when I asked you to fuck me, you could have just told me to fuck off, taken Roach, and gone. You really think I won't understand, when this is all over, what you've done for me?"

Geralt's face was a blank mask. "You're not thinking clearly. You forget my confessions. If you were going to be feral with need, I would make sure it was _me_ you needed. I did this because I'm selfish."

"No, you did this because you lo--" Jaskier bit down on his tongue as he watched Geralt's face harden further. "Because I am your best, and perhaps one and only, friend. This changes nothing."

"This changes _everything_."

"But not...not like that. It doesn't have to change like that."

"Jaskier, are you going to let me save your life, or are you going to talk until one of us-- _you_ \--dies?"

Jaskier searched his eyes. He didn't like how unreadable his face was, how guarded. "Kiss me first."

"Why?"

"Because you can't suck a man's cock wearing the same expression you'd wear to a funeral."

That earned him the slightest of smiles.

With a huff, the Witcher complied, leaning in fast, hard, plundering his mouth with the vigor and enthusiasm Jaskier had craved throughout this entire endeavor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Sorry to edit my notes guys. But some people are being jerks on tumblr, so I'm erasing mentions of my work. Still love you all for asking about it, though.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments!  
> 

The kiss left Jaskier panting, writhing, inching closer and closer to Geralt, trying to climb into his lap. But Geralt kept a firm, staying hand between them--a palm pressed against Jaskier's chest, so that he couldn't mount Geralt's legs.

"Let me put my mouth on you," Geralt said after a time.

"You have your mouth on me," Jaskier said, kissing him again. Slowly, languidly. He reached between Geralt's legs, stroking him once more through his trousers. His cock was thick, long. Jaskier imagined it butting up behind him, imagined the Witcher's bare dick, slicked with oil, running up the cleft of his backside. 

In turn, Geralt snaked his other hand between Jaskier's legs, encircling the bard's _actually_ -naked cock, making him jerk back with a gasp. "I mean here," he rumbled.

"You have to make me more promises first."

"Hmm."

He couldn't tell if that was a yes or a no, so he barreled onward. "Firstly: when you do it, don't pretend you find it unseemly--as you're likely intending to do at this very moment. That will do neither of us any favors. I know you find our predicament...titillating. And you're ashamed of that." He leaned in again, spoke softly against Geralt's lips, "Don't be. Please, don't be. I _want_ you thrilling at the touch of me, the taste of me. I have such a hunger for you. It'll only hurt if you pretend you don't want me."

Geralt said nothing, instead letting the tip of his tongue trail across, then curl softly into, Jaskier's mouth for a teasing moment. 

Jaskier's eyelashes fluttered. The sensual almost-kiss sent all kinds of greedy thoughts through his mind. His dick throbbed in Geralt's loose grip.

"Second," Jaskier whispered, steeling himself. "You have to let me play. I love that you want me so desperately you're not sure you can restrain yourself. That you dream of having me at all costs. The very idea that my mere presence could drive you so mad..." A shiver worked its way up his spine. "That I could steal a Witcher's wits... Your bones are iron, mind sharp as steel, your resolve stone, and the thought that _I_ could be the death of your willpower--" He groaned, grabbing Geralt hard by the back of the head, fisting his soft hair, crushing their lips together in a ruthless kiss. He tried to communicate his craving for roughness, how he ached for a firm touch, a forceful command--a press and pull of demand and desire.

When he drew away a moment later, Geralt tried to follow with his mouth, eyes half-lidded. "When I say no," Jaskier breathed, thrusting lightly into Geralt's fist. "It's _yes_. When I say stop, it's _more_."

"How will I know if I've started to push too far?" Geralt asked, pulling his hand away (the bastard). "Been too rough? Done something to you you didn't actually--?"

Jaskier knew there was one true thing about himself at this very moment: there was likely nothing Geralt could do that would make him want to stop. But he couldn't say that. He already had Geralt by little more than a thread, he couldn't risk breaking it. "V-Valdo Marx," he said quickly, his voice abnormally high.

Geralt's brows knitted together in confusion. "Isn't that the man you tried to have killed by the djinn?"

"Yes."

"What's he got to do with me sucking your cock?"

"Absolutely nothing. In fact, if I think about him long enough, it might just make this whole _constantly hard_ thing go away. What I'm saying is, if I say, Valdo Marx, you'll know I, for certain, want you to stop."

"Well you've given me very good incentive to behave myself," Geralt said. "Can't have you screaming another man's name while I'm trying to get you off, can I?"

"Do I have them, then?" Jaskier asked. "Your promises? That you will be open with your pleasure, your wanting, and you will let me pander to your fantasies?"

Geralt's face was stern as he considered.

The sun was getting low on the horizon. How long had it been now?

Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn't be perfectly convinced of his consent until the potion had burned itself out of him. Until tomorrow, after they'd slept, when they woke up and Jaskier didn't immediately go running for the hills. But there was no waiting until then. He had to decide what would be easier on the both of them in the long run: enduring this miserably, or participating enthusiastically.

Geralt pursed his lips, clearly having made his choice.

Jaskier held his breath, waiting for Geralt to speak.

"Call me _Butcher_ again," he said flatly.

Jaskier blinked. "What?"

"If you call me Butcher one more time..." His voice was a low rumble, daring and seductive. "There's no telling what I'll do."

Jaskier swallowed thickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upcoming content warning: I hadn't originally intended for them to do any non-con role play, but that has changed. It will be mild-mild-mild non-con role play. I will remind you at every turn that Jaskier is happy about it. 
> 
> I will also update the fic's tags.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Non-con role play in this chapter and onwards.
> 
> \---
> 
> You are all wonderful!

Jaskier nearly came as those words rumbled through him.

 _Call me Butcher_.

The game had begun.

He could turn Geralt with a simple name calling. Get what he wanted with a _single word_. He could bring them both to the heights of pleasure with a _whisper_. Such was the power his Witcher had just handed him.

He bit his tongue, hard, to keep from flat out shouting it.

He toughened his expression again. Made his mouth hold a haughty, patronizing frown. "Tell me... _Butcher_ ," he said, quivering as it rolled past his lips. "About a time you almost had me. You say you kill your monster constantly, but you must have slipped at some point. There must have been a moment when fate--not your willpower--intervened to save me."

Geralt's entire demeanor changed. The softness, the sensualness, fled from him, leaving nothing but gristle and grit in their wake.

This was not the waiting-Witcher; the man who calmly walked into a tavern and took stock of his surroundings. Nor was it the ready-Witcher, prepared to spring, seconds from a fight. This was someone much more dangerous, with something insidious setting his jaw and pulling tight at his muscles. 

This was someone who smiled all wrong. When he showed his teeth, it wasn't friendly. It was a smug warning. "In Cintra," he said matter-of-factly. 

Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. He drew in a quick breath. "W-when? In the bath? After the selkiemore?"

He flashed his teeth again. "No. You think fate could have intervened if I'd broken _then_?" Geralt leaned close, his breath coming heavy through his nose. "As though when you knelt next to the tub I couldn't have dunked your head and pulled you in?" He pushed forward, fully into Jaskier's space--then _past_ it, forcing Jaskier to shuffle backwards on his knees. "Taken what I wanted before you even had a chance to scream?"

Jaskier's shuffle turned into a scramble as Geralt continued to advance. The pebbles beneath him were unkind, slipping unceremoniously out from under his boots as he tried to get a foothold, to stand, so that he landed on his bare backside in the end. 

Geralt calmly followed his retreat, expression predatory, focused. Once the bard _thunked_ onto his bum, he slid between Jaskier's splayed knees, propping himself up with one hand in the dirt, hovering, so he could slip the other up Jaskier's thigh.

"No, not then, too much blood in the bathwater," Geralt rumbled. "Wouldn't have been able to tell if any of it was yours."

Jaskier could still recall the sensation of the wood under his elbows, could feel his posture as he'd leaned over the edge, looking Geralt in the eye. 

"If you're going to spill blood under my...ministrations..." He pushed his hand up, up, until he passed over the yanked-down hem of Jaskier's trousers and met naked flesh--then up further still. His thumb pressed into the tender inside of Jaskier's hip, right where pelvis met leg. "If I make you bleed, I want to see it bead on the wound."

"Stop," Jaskier said, testing the word in his mouth. He batted at Geralt's invading hand for good measure, trying to push it off him. 

Geralt gripped him harder, dug his thumb in deeper.

Jaskier clamped down on a pleased moan, kept his eyes from rolling back in his head. He bit his lip instead, put fear in his gaze. 

"My will broke at the party."

"You couldn't have done it then," Jaskier gasped, pawing subtly at the ground, trying to slide himself away. Geralt pressed down, holding him in place, fingertips insistent in his flesh. "How do you imagine you'd get away with it with so many people about?" 

"As though you haven't been dragged away by plenty of strange men in courtly environments," Geralt sneered. "Safety in numbers? _Not for you_."

Those last three words took all the air out of Jaskier's lungs. Hit him like a punch to his gut--heavy, hard.

And they held a _wildness_.

He twisted then, tried to roll to one side, to reach for the dirt behind him so he could drag himself out from under the Butcher. His fingers searched frantically for a handhold, anything he could use to leverage himself away. Geralt moved to flip him back over, but Jaskier kicked, struggled. He didn't hold back, putting the full force of his strength behind his thrashing. He didn't want Geralt to go easy on him, not for a second.

"No. No--Geralt! Geralt, _no_." His voice was high, his words quick with a strained edge.

The Witcher's grip loosened for the briefest of moments--but only so he could find better purchase. He tucked one hand under Jaskier's knee, twisting him, yanking him, letting his shoulders and side scrape along the sharp rocks in the dirt. With a growl and a firm tug, he pulled Jaskier beneath him, forced him fully onto his back.

Jaskier couldn't believe how fast his heart was beating, how his dick absolutely _throbbed_ with it. Droplet after droplet of precome rolled down his shaft as he brought his hands up to shove at Geralt's chest, his chin--trying to land a slap or a punch.

With a look of mild irritation, Geralt caught his flailing hands, then kneeled down with a leg on either side of Jaskier's belly, caging him in, putting part of his weight on him.

Jaskier bowed his back, bucked his hips, tested his confines. With every flinch left or right Geralt deftly redirected him, forced him back, forced him _still_.

Jaskier panted, basking in how easy it was for Geralt to control him.

If he'd really wanted to get away, he couldn't. Not unless Geralt let him.

He was at the Butcher's mercy...or lack thereof.

"There was a moment," Geralt rumbled, "When I knew it was time to let the monster _feed_." He bared his teeth again. "Where the itch to fuck you became unbearable. You _made it_ unbearable, you little shit. I wouldn't last another hour, I knew, without having you beneath me. You should have been writhing, whimpering--speared on my _cock_ \--not prancing about. There should have been pained gasps and delicious pleas falling from your lips instead of animated ditties. I wanted to wipe the performer's smile off your face. To see your mouth in a pretty _O_ of horror instead."

"Wh-what did I do?" Jaskier asked with a tremble, voice barely above a whisper. "That made it so unbearable?"

Geralt set his jaw, rolled his tongue in his mouth before spitting out: "You _winked_. I can't say at who. Knowing you, probably at no one and everyone. But it made my blood _boil_. I had to hurt you. Needed to twist you."

Transferring both of Jaskier's wrists to one hand, he lashed out with the other, grabbing Jaskier's chin, digging his fingers into his cheeks as he bent down close to bark in his face.

"How _dare you_ drag me in amongst nobility to protect you from the consequences of your wandering dick, and _then_ have the audacity to flirt with an _entire crowd of people._ I couldn't stand your coy smiles, your gamboling, your suggestive gods-damned eyes. Couldn't stand that other people could look on you so easily and think the same dirty thoughts as me. You relished their leers, their stares. You knew they wanted you. You always preen under such attention--and I can't bear it. _Won't_ bear it...not anymore."

"Geralt, please," Jaskier pleaded, making his expression open, vulnerable, letting his eyebrows droop as though he were trying to induce pity. "You don't have to do this. Please, stop."

 _Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, oh gods--don't stop_.

"Haven't you been listening?" Geralt derided him. "The monster is awake. The monster is hungry. And it's time to let it feed."

The Butcher swooped down, crashing his mouth into Jaskier's in something that was only a parody of a kiss. This was claiming--his tongue delving too deep, his lips too hard, mouth too open. Sloppy and degrading.

He settled his full weight on Jaskier, pinning his hands between their chests. He dropped his hips back, pressed down, bringing their cocks together.

And then he _thrust_.

Jaskier could not stop the pleasurable whimper it wrung from him. The _force_ of it, the _insistence_ \--Geralt did it again, and again, humping against him, growling first into his mouth, then into his ear. "I finally have you," the Butcher said. "All the things I'm going to do to you, the ways in which I'm going to abuse you. You have no idea what's coming."

 _Yes_. Fuck, _yes_.

"No," Jaskier moaned. "Stop. Gods, please--" _Don't_ "--stop!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so far I have somehow managed to write, like, the only fuck-or-die fic where no one is fucking. But they *are* gonna fuck, I promise.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are <3

Geralt groaned in satisfaction as he rutted, and the bard was sure he'd found his new favorite sound. He wanted to urge him on, to meet him pleasure-filled sigh for pleasure-filled sigh. But that wasn't the sort of encouragement his brute responded to best.

"Please," he sobbed, wondering if he could conjure real tears. He pouted, took a shaky breath. "Let me go. Don't--"

Geralt's hand dropped from Jaskier's face to his throat, this time squeezing tight, cutting him off abruptly. "You're not going anywhere. Not until I've had my fill of you." He slipped that same rough hand around the back of Jaskier's neck, pressing upwards, forcing him to bare his throat.

With a greedy sound, Geralt licked a long stripe up over Jaskier's adam's apple.

The trail of his tongue left Jaskier keening. He hoped, then, for another kiss--angry, soft, vicious, teasing--it didn't matter what kind.

Instead, Geralt wrenched his neck to the side and bit down, hard, right where his throat met shoulder.

Jaskier's sudden cry of pain was genuine.

Geralt shivered on top of him. "Your neck does things to me," he growled. "The incredible line of it... Makes me want to mark you. To choke you." Sighing happily, he bit down again.

" _Ah_. Stop!" Jaskier yipped, trying to pull away. 

Geralt's thrusts came more relentlessly, and Jasker could feel his orgasm building already. 

He needed to come.

He was so close. 

And Geralt seemed lost in him. He peppered Jaskier's neck with small nips, ran his fingers through his hair. And all the while his hips never faltered.

Jaskier was afraid to warn him--afraid Geralt would stop if he told him he was going to come. Getting off was the whole point, but--but--

His mind was muddled. And this time, not from the potion. 

It was the pure rush of having Geralt on top of him. Of getting the attention he was due. Gods, he deserved this. Finally, he had what he'd dreamed of--if through unconventional means. He'd never been one to seek out pain before. 

But everywhere Geralt touched him _tingled_. The sharp prick of his teeth left a pleasant ache behind. His body was heavy, comfortingly so. And the way he'd committed to his role of monster--of a man so filled with desire he could no longer maintain his decorum, could no longer contain his savage need--

Everything was perfect. The friction. The heat. Geralt smelled like distilled lust and Jaskier couldn't--he couldn't--

He cried out as he came, hips raising to meet Geralt's downward thrusts, riding out his ecstasy with eagerness. He panted, he moaned. He rutted upward with a fury, letting the slickness he spilled between their bodies ease the way.

When it was over, he stilled, prickling all over with pleasure.

Geralt stilled as well, mouth still pressed against Jaskier's throat. Then he rumbled in a deep, deprecating laugh. "First I betray you, now your cock betrays you."

Geralt sat back, examining the wetness Jaskier had left on his trousers, surveying the bard's disheveled state. "What a perfect little slut you are." His big hands went to the wet patch, rubbing over it, before moving to the knots that held his breeches closed. "Suppose it's time I got out of these anyway."

Geralt stood, tugging off a boot.

It took Jaskier's brain a moment to come down, to catch up--because he'd just had a sonnet-worthy orgasm, and Geralt was getting good and truly naked.

But eventually, he realized:

He was free.

The Butcher had let him go.

He didn't know what to do. What was he supposed to--?

"Jaskier?" Geralt asked casually, pulling off his second boot.

"Um--yes?"

And then, suddenly, the world was moving in slow motion.

Geralt reached down the front of his trousers, veins in his arm straining as he gripped himself. With a sigh of relief, he pulled his mouth-watering cock out into the early-evening air. 

_I'm dead_. Jaskier decided. _The djinn killed me and I died._

Stroking himself once, Geralt wrung a single pearl of precome from his cock. Catching it on his thumb, he brought it up to his mouth and sucked it between his lips.

_Fuck._

Jaskier's mind turned to porridge.

"Jaskier?"

" _What_?" he asked petulantly. 

Geralt's gaze bore into his. 

"Run."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I see some of you have caught on to my secret plan to ruin every canon scene for you, so that you are reminded of this fic every time you see them on screen together. Mwahahaha! (Notice Geralt last chapter using "incredible" to describe Jaskier's neck--I like to imagine Jaskier thought he'd use the same line, but was just too much of a dork to pull it off).

Jaskier was up on his feet in a flash, faster than he could have thought possible, given his muddled mind and his blissfully post-orgasm body.

Everything in him wanted to run _toward_ his Butcher. He wanted to kneel before that beautiful cock, wanted Geralt to choke him on it.

He wanted to taste him so badly, his mouth was watering. 

But he knew that wasn't what Geralt was after. He didn't want Jaskier easy, amicable.

He wanted him fierce, thrashing. Resisting.

What a cruel joke to play on a man thrumming with magical sexual energy. For all their talk of Geralt's willpower, Jaskier felt like he was the one being tested. 

"Run!" Geralt barked at him again, then turned his head, focusing on divesting himself of his trousers.

With shaking hands, Jaskier pulled up his breeches, holding the front closed over his still-throbbing cock. Feeling like he was in a dream, like the air was too thick and his feet too heavy, he took his first few painful steps _away_ \--backwards--unsure of where to go.

Not the road. Of course not the road. No telling what kind of nonsense they'd end up in if some random traveler found him running, disheveled and hard, with a very naked and equally hard Witcher right after.

 _Eh, could be good nonsense_ , _depending on the traveler_ , his very helpful, very horny brain provided.

_No, no. Focus. You're running. You're running and hiding because he--he--_

_He wants to_ hunt _you_.

 _You're a lamb and he's a lion, and he wants to get his big paws on you. Sink his claws into you. His teeth, his_ \--

 _By Melitele's supple bottom,_ _he better sink his giant_ cock _into me_.

Geralt looked up again, flung his trousers to the side. It was as though the gods themselves had carved him out of marble, fashioned him out of clay. Just for Jaskier. Every bit of him was sculpted, his muscles thick and toned. Jaskier wasn't sure when he'd taken off and stored his medallion--likely it had gone with the armor--but this was, good and truly, the first time he'd seen the man with nothing on his person but a tie in his hair.

The bard wanted to weep.

He wanted to write an epic poem.

He wanted to kneel down to the gods in thanks.

He wanted to--

Geralt took a stalking step toward him, face hard, lip curled. 

He wanted to _run_. 

Yes. Run!

Jaskier spun on his heel.

 _Shit, shit, shit_. Where to go?

The trees. 

Yes, right, good. The trees.

It wasn't a particularly impressive stand of trees--no deep, dense forest, that was for certain. No burrows to hide in, no thickets to duck behind. No boulders or sudden ledges. But it would do until he could gather his wits. 

If Geralt gave him a chance to gather his wits.

What his steps lacked in confidence, they also lacked in deftness. There was no subtly to his footfalls. No nuance to his breathing or the movement of his arms.

He simply _fled_.

Soon he stumbled--twisting that same ankle he'd turned wrong hours ago. No pain hit him, but his heart leapt, and the misstep sent him falling forward onto his hands. Without looking back, he scrambled upright, hissing at the burn in his scraped palms--but he daren’t waste time examining them.

He broke through into the trees a moment later, and kept going. Tree after tree flew by. But the growth was too thin. There was no way to duck out of sight. He had to find a hiding place. Somewhere to catch his breath. Somewhere to formulate a plan.

If he paused for even a moment, the Butcher would have him.

Without his boots, would Jaskier be able to hear Geralt's steps? He was already light of foot, already adept at sneaking up and slaughtering his prey without so much as snapping a twig.

Jaskier nearly tripped again as the words _slaughter_ and _prey_ crossed his mind.

Suddenly he was sure the Witcher was right on top of him. Was positive he could feel his breath on the back of his neck, his fingers brushing his shoulder.

Jaskier pushed himself harder, sprinting.

He skid sidelong into a trunk as he tried to change direction. Bouncing off of it, he threw his arms around the next skinny sapling he encountered.

Somewhere, not far behind, there came a growl.

He drew in a sharp breath, anticipating a pounce. A ghost of Geralt's firm grip seized him--but nothing real touched him.

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed a shock of white hair through the trees, a few yards behind.

Jaskier couldn't rest. 

Leveraging himself away from the sapling, he tore through the undergrowth.

The ground began to slope downwards. Down, down. The trees here were older, thicker. He chose a particularly wide trunk and slid behind it, pressing his back to its rough bark, panting like the pursued man he was.

Trying to catch his breath, he chanced another peek the way he'd come. 

Geralt stood at the top of the slope, keen eyes scanning the terrain.

Jaskier quickly snapped back behind the tree. 

"You think you can hide from me?" came a bellow.

Jaskier's fingers fidgeted against the bark. If he tried to run again now, he'd be caught. Geralt would see him.

"You're just a man," Geralt added, his voice closer now.

Still, Jaskier hadn't heard a single footstep.

His fringe fell into his eyes, and he batted it away. Anticipation had his insides coiling, kept his breath high and fast as the promise of his hunter's success bore down on him.

Plan. Plan--he needed a _plan_.

"There's one thing men should never forget about Witchers..."

So close. Too close.

Jaskier bit his lip, caught by indecision. He couldn't stay here. He had to move, he had to run again. He took one darting step--

"...we can smell your _fear_."

Five words.

Growled _directly into his ear_.

Geralt's entire weight barreled into him, knocking him sideways onto the ground.

Jaskier's breath left him in a huff. His shoulder popped, a stone nicked his hip. He clawed at the dirt--hoping that perhaps, this time, the earth would be kind and help him get away.

Geralt, for all his force, didn't land on top of Jaskier. Instead, he shuffled down--toward his bard's feet.

It took Jaskier a moment to catch on to what he was doing.

One boot gone.

Then the next.

And then the Butcher was yanking at the top of his breeches, pushing them down.

"No. Geralt, stop!" Jaskier flailed, lashing out behind himself blindly, throwing his elbow back in a wide arc.

He startled when that elbow unexpectedly made sharp contact.

Geralt _hissed_.

Jaskier froze. His limbs went cold. Slowly, he rolled onto his back, eyes wide, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

Geralt, hovering over him, touched his own lip. His fingertips came away bloody.

"Oh, Geralt, I didn't mean--"

The Butcher's eyes went _wild_. He gritted his teeth, pulled his hand back, poised to strike Jaskier across the mouth.

But he paused.

He gave Jaskier time. Time to cry out his rival troubadour's name.

Jaskier didn't want to. Not even a little bit. 

What he wanted was the blow.

"Please," he whispered.

Setting his jaw, Geralt backhanded him.

Jaskier's head snapped to the side under the force. He gasped. Tasted blood.

And Geralt let out a filthy groan. 

Without hesitation, he swooped in, kissing Jaskier--kissing him like it hurt not to, like he was a drowning man and Jaskier was the very air. He only stopped for a moment to breathe an admission against Jaskier's lips. "I _ache_ for you." 

The tenor of his voice made Jaskier's heart hurt. It was desperate, but not angry. Sad. As though Jaskier were a far away thing he couldn't touch, a dream he could never make real--even though he was _right here_ , desiring him _right back_. 

"Then have me," Jaskier said, touching his chin lightly, kissing him softly, matching Geralt for want, for frustration. For pain and for need. "Have me. _Have me have me have me_."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book Rec because you guys might like the themes!
> 
> NOTE THIS IS NOT MY BOOK, I DID NOT WRITE IT, I just think you will enjoy it if you enjoy this fic.
> 
> Docile by K.M. Szpara is super-gay dystopic sci-fi, with elements of dubcon and noncon. It's about sex, consent, and capitalism. Something y'all might enjoy! (Please do thoroughly research it to make sure it's for you first--definitely contains possibly triggering material).

Jaskier kissed him more, kissed him harder. Kissed him like he couldn't stop kissing him. He fisted Geralt's hair, pulled. He gasped into his mouth, thrust his tongue between his lips, tasting their mingled blood.

" _Have me_ ," he demanded between kisses, words hissed through clenched teeth. His heart still beat like he was being chased. His entire body was slicked with sweat--from running, from being separated from Geralt. The fire was roaring in him, even with their lips on one another, even with their bodies tucked together.

Even with Geralt's naked cock nestled in the crook of his hip.

"That's not what we agreed to," Geralt chided, voice now rough and sly.

"Fuck your precious chivalry, your gods-damned _honor_ ," Jaskier whined. How could Geralt's blows feel like care and his resistance feel like cruelty? "I don't need protecting. How many hours has it been? It's _over_." The lie was blatant. "It's got to be over. You _must_ know this is--"

"It's _not_ over," Geralt barked at him.

Jaskier gritted his teeth. "Then fucking _do your job_ ," he spat. "Finish your hunt. Do _what we agreed_. You want to save me? Then save me, _Butcher_."

Geralt growled, deep and feral, descending to bite first at Jaskier's bottom lip, then at his chin, his neck, his collar bone. Swiftly, he prowled down Jaskier's body, took a nipple between his teeth, tugging.

" _No_ ," Jaskier admonished.

The Butcher bit _harder_.

Jaskier cried out.

As Geralt sat up, a single droplet of blood sprang forth from the bite. He ducked back in for only an instant, to lath at it with his tongue. 

"Fuck," Jaskier groaned.

Sitting on his haunches--with a sinister twist to his lips--Geralt put both hands on the bard's ribcage, dug his nails in. He clawed down Jaskier's front with painstaking slowness, leaving long, red lines on the other man's abdomen.

Jaskier writhed, making a number of wordless half-protests. 

Unable to contain himself, Geralt dove for the bard's remaining clothes, tearing at his trousers. Jaskier heard seams popping, fabric ripping, as he helped kick himself free. If he'd been in his right mind he would have protested at the roughness--genuinely--but at this stage he was just as happy to set _all_ of his clothes on _fire_ if it meant he was naked and Geralt was _fucking_ him.

The bard bucked his hips and Geralt knelt between his legs. He wasn't bare for more than a moment before Geralt had his big hands around the base of his cock--squeezing his shaft, caressing his balls. 

Geralt's gaze caught Jaskier's for half a beat before he licked out, tasting Jaskier's cock. 

The bard's eyes rolled back.

Finally. Fucking _finally_.

There was no tease. Geralt was done with the tease--and Jaskier had been over it fucking _hours_ ago. Geralt licked him from the base of his dick to its head before sinking down in one wet slide.

Jaskier let out a debauched cry, sitting up as his cock hit the back of Geralt's throat. He grabbed onto the back of the Witcher's head, knotted his fingers in his white hair, curling over the top of him.

And Geralt just...held him there. For a long moment, saliva pooling. 

Jaskier squirmed. His dick _throbbed_. And Geralt's wonderful mouth _squeezed_.

Eventually Geralt pulled back with a gasp, lips shiny, fist working Jaskier from root to tip in quick strokes.

"Fuck!" Jaskier shouted.

Geralt's mouth descended again, and Jaskier pressed and pulled with his presses and pulls--not controlling, holding on for dear life.

Geralt's pace was frantic. He sucked him with fervor.

Jaskier briefly wondered how many cocks he'd sucked before.

For a man who was all harshness and grit, his mouth was the softest velvet. Warm, wet. Each swipe of his tongue and flutter of his throat was heaven. He even let out whorish groans, sending delicious vibrations though Jaskier's groin.

Geralt slowed for an instant, to take him as deep as he could, nose burrowing into the curls of his pubic hair. His hands went to Jaskier's thighs, nails scrapping, digging.

Jaskier let out a shaky breath, ecstasy coiling in his lower body. The pure pleasure of Geralt's mouth was made all the more poignant when undercut by pain.

He yanked hard at his hair, then. Insistent. Geralt let him pull him up, but wouldn't go quickly. Jaskier watched, fixated, as his cock slowly slipped, dripping, from between Geralt's lips...

...and then he utterly lost his mind.

Overheated, overstimulated, reckless and wanting, there was no denying himself any longer.

He pulled harder on the Witcher's hair, brought him up to his mouth, kissed him violently. Devouring him.

 _Distracting_ him.

So he wouldn't be prepared when Jaskier threw his full weight into him. 

With a grunt, the bard barreled forward.

Geralt was kneeling at such an angle that he took the weight, let it push him back. He landed on his arse, but threw one arm around Jaskier, keeping them both upright, keeping them kissing, keeping them connected. Jaskier was in his lap in an instant, straddling him, making sure not to trap Geralt's cock between them--

Making sure it touched him exactly where he wanted it.

He didn't say anything, didn't pull his mouth away from Geralt's for a second. Swiftly, he reached back for Geralt's cock, gripped it soundly, and pressed it against his opening, desperate for him. 

Could he take him like this? This instant, unprepared?

He wanted to try.

He'd do anything-- _anything_ \--to have Geralt inside him.

Geralt caught Jaskier's wrist, and the arm around Jaskier's back tightened in a vice grip.

The Witcher tucked his face into the crook of Jaskier's neck, not even bothering to tell him no. Just trying to force him still, force him calm.

But Jaskier couldn't be calmed. He kept struggling, started rutting, sliding his backside against Geralt's cock, letting his own cock glide against the Witcher's abdomen. The veins of Geralt's dick pulsed beneath Jaskier's palm. The thickness of it, the length of it, made their own promises. And on his backward thrusts, the head hit him just _so_. He was sure he could take it. Sure he could ride him right now, this very second. Geralt just had to release his wrist, let Jaskier guide his cock inside. 

They were so close.

So close. 

He needed him. He needed him or he would die.

He kept _pushing_. Kept _trying_. 

Geralt had to give in. He _had to_.

After long moments of complete rigidness, face buried, Geralt started to shake. The smallest, tightest tremors wracked his body--those of a man doing everything in his power to hold himself back.

Jaskier wanted him to _break_.

Finally, Geralt spoke. "Jaskier," he said softly. "... _please_... _stop_."

The anguish in his voice forced Jaskier still as stone.

There was wetness on his neck as Geralt pulled away. And though his Witcher looked at him with a stoic expression, there were tears in the corners of his eyes.

"I can't," Geralt said, swallowing thickly, voice constricted. He leaned his forehead against Jaskier's. " _We_ can't."

"Of course we can. _Of course we can_ ," Jaskier said, dismissive and demanding all in one. A hundred different promises crossed his mind, as well as hundred different threats. The worst one turned his stomach: _If you_ don't _fuck me, I_ will _leave you_.

The potion still coursed through his veins, but he wanted it _gone_. He wanted to free them. To release Geralt from his shame and his fear. He wanted that even more than he wanted his cock. He just wanted Geralt to know--to _believe_ \--that they both willingly took part in this. That he wasn't driving his best friend away.

Whimpering, needy--frustrated that Geralt wouldn't believe his truths _or_ his lies, no matter which he flung at him--he tried to kiss him again.

Geralt complied for one sweet moment, countering Jaskier's haste and force with softness, slowness, as though he were savoring the taste while he could. A taste he thought he'd never have again. Believing that tomorrow...tomorrow...

Geralt hooked his hands under Jaskier's knees, pulled them tight around his waist.

"What are you--?"

Geralt was standing, lifting him, carrying him with both hands under his bum. 

_This is new_ , Jaskier thought.

The Witcher only took three quick strides.

Jaskier gasped as his shoulders _slammed_ into bark. Geralt shoved him, hard, into a thick tree--the same one he'd cowered behind minutes earlier. He gasped again as his back scraped _up_ the trunk. Geralt lifted him higher, forced him to raise his legs, to throw them over the Witcher's shoulders.

He held Jaskier aloft, two hands cradling his arse, back braced against the tree.

Jaskier crossed his ankles and grabbed on to white hair once more, looking down, searching Geralt's gaze.

"I'd like to see you try that maneuver again," Geralt rumbled. "From here." His eyes were still glossy, but he was attempting to temper his emotions, to focus on the task. To dive into a state of want and nothing more.

Before Jaskier could think of a scathing comeback, the Witcher put his mouth on him again, devouring his cock with renewed vigor as the bard threw his head back and bowed his body against the tree.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank The Amazing Devil for dropping a song that deliciously underscores Geralt and Jaskier's non-con role play. Good job guys, way to help me out with "That Unwanted Animal."

Jaskier could think no thoughts. There was only pleasure. Only wetness, only warmth, only the grip of Geralt's hands and the slide of his tongue and the press of his lips and the hollowing of his cheeks. There was no day, no night. Darkness, light. Only the touch of the White Wolf and the building, the growing, the heightening pressure that pulsed in Jaskier's groin and behind his eyes.

He clawed savagely at Geralt--his hair, his shoulders, his face. 

Every time Jaskier wanted to scream _yes_ , he cried out, "No!" Every gasp had a bitter edge, every moan a gritty underbelly of need and anger and frustration and _insatiable want_.

And all the while, the Witcher's mouth was unrelenting.

Jaskier was on the edge. On the precipice of a high cliff, his orgasm about to rip through him, force him to tumble down, down, down--

"St-stop," he managed, forgetting for a moment that Geralt wouldn't take it as he meant it. "I'm going to--to-- _Geralt_ \--" he panted as the Witcher gripped his arse all the tighter. "I'm going to come."

Surely the Butcher would pull off. Probably throw him to the ground. Make him spill himself into the dirt. 

And indeed, Geralt pulled back. His golden eyes intense with arousal, his lips slick and over-pink from use.

"Come in my mouth, Jaskier," he ordered.

The _demand,_ the way he said his _name_ \--

Those meager words flung Jaskier over the cliff all on their own. 

He groaned--deep, dirty. 

Geralt barely had time to envelop him again before the first spurt of come. And he didn't simply hold Jaskier's cock in his mouth--didn't passively accept the flood between his lips. He sucked him through it, letting out his own hums of appreciation, greedily licking up all Jaskier had to give, swallowing it down, draining his cock of all he could get.

A small dribble of white seeped from the corner of his mouth as he slid back to hold just the head of Jaskier's cock, lips bowed obscenely around Jaskier's shaft.

Jaskier's mind tried to conjure words. He thought he should say something. But his ability to form coherent sentences was gone. He could give none of the praises Geralt's performance deserved, could write not one line of the limerick such debauchery should rightly inspire.

His mind was all flames. 

His body alight.

This was supposed to be helping. But every touch from Geralt just made him want him more. It didn't lessen the heat. Didn't lessen anything. He just wanted more. _More, more, more more--_

What Geralt gave him was splendid, but he needed--

He needed--

He just _needed_.

And Geralt refused to give him all that he required.

But it wasn't just the two of them here.

There was a monster as well.

Right now, the monster peeked at them from a crack in Geralt's walls, growling, pushing, but unable to truly rip into its victim.

He needed it to _come out_.

If he couldn't have Geralt's cock, he could have his violence. He could have his sadism, his passion, his sheer brutality.

They could both be feral. Could both be animals. 

Clawing, scraping, rutting in the dirt.

Bodies in control.

Minds locked away.

"Butcher," he huffed, making sure Geralt was good and primed. "You... _fucker_." 

He lashed out with a vengeance, raking his nails in a fierce strike across Geralt's cheek.

Geralt gasped and let go of his cock. His own nails sunk like talons into Jaskier's backside. He yanked in reverse, thrust forward--gave Jaskier an extra-hard shove against the tree.

"You _fucking beast_!" Jaskier screamed, reaching back, grabbing the trunk, clawing at the bark, pushing his hips forward. "Fucking _bastard_! Get the fuck off me!"

Geralt took a shaky breath. A delicious tremor ran through his arms and into Jaskier.

The bard bent forward, curling, leaning as close to Geralt's face as his position would allow. He ripped at his hair, _spat on his face_. "Get _the fuck_ off me!"

With a roar, Geralt threw their bodies away from the tree, let them tumble to the ground. 

The fall knocked the wind from Jaskier's lungs. He coughed, gasped as he attempted to untangle himself from Geralt, kicking at his head. His heel caught Geralt in the chin, and a moment later, Geralt caught him around the ankle.

The Witcher pulled him hard along the ground, pulled Jaskier beneath him, rolled him onto his stomach. 

Jaskier let panicked screams split the air. "No! Stop! _Stop_!"

Geralt twisted both of Jaskier's arms behind his back, making him clutch his own elbows--to form a bar across his spine that Geralt used to yank him up into a kneeling position.

" _Spread your legs_ ," Geralt bayed.

" _No_."

Geralt's foot kicked between Jaskier's knees, made him widen his stance.

Jaskier bent his neck, let himself sob, shake. His hair fell in front of his eyes, shielding his true expression from the world--a devilish sneer, covetous and thrilled.

And then Geralt was behind him, kneeling as well, shoving himself into Jaskier's space. A cruel hand took Jaskier by the throat, pulled him back, forced his head against a tense shoulder. Jaskier shuddered as Geralt's cock slid between his legs, thrust beneath his testicles. 

He couldn't stop the wild cry of hunger that wrenched itself from his chest. His appetite was insatiable, his thirst for Geralt unquenchable.

The two of them were dirty, sweaty, covered in grime from the forest floor and the rapidly drying evidence of Jaskier's multiple orgasms.

He wanted them _dirtier_. Wanted _everything_ dirtier. Wouldn't be happy until Geralt's come painted his hide. Until he felt it sticky on his thighs or tacky between his teeth.

The Witcher's heartbeat thumped radically against his back, and Jaskier's own heart felt like it was trying to beat itself silly against his ribs. His blood raged, his mouth watered, his body itched with the urge for _skin on skin on skin on skin..._

Now that Jaskier's arms were trapped between them, Geralt reached with his free hand around Jaskier's hip. He took hold of his cock, squeezed, but continued lower, to his balls, lower still, to Geralt's own dick peeking out beneath. 

Geralt palmed himself, pressing up, up against Jaskier. Petted his cock head and Jaskier's sac in the same luscious swipe. 

Jaskier closed his eyes, panting like a wild animal. 

Teeth found his shoulder, clamped down. His skin bruised, broke.

Geralt moaned.

Everything in Jaskier wound tight. A white-hot light flashed behind his eyelids. The struggle and the hunger and the nearness and the fucking _depravity_ of it all sent him flying again, already.

Geralt had barely touched his cock this time, but he was fucking _coming_.

The Witcher growled against his shoulder, wanton, inhuman. His fist went to the head of Jaskier's cock, catching his come--making him spurt over his knuckles, between his fingers. 

Geralt spread it down Jaskier's shaft, coating him, easing the slide as he stroked him with a tight fist. 

Both of their bodies thrummed like lute strings. Their grunts and screams filled the trees with a terrible music--the sounds of creatures scrabbling, fighting, gnawing. 

Geralt thrust hard between Jaskier's legs, bent him forward, covered Jaskier with his body, curled them both over, pulling the bard tight against his pelvis. The Witcher's hips smacked pitilessly against his backside in a graceless rhythm. 

Against him. But not _into_ him.

The monster wanted to gorge on Jaskier. To spear him. To ravage him.

But Geralt was still the one in control.

Where was the animal? Jaskier needed it to mount him.

 _Do it, do it, do it, do it_ \--

He let a wordless howl--a strangled sound--escape his throat as he bucked violently back to meet his attacker.

 _Fucking take me_.

And Jaskier finally realized: there wasn't one monster here with them, stalking them.

There were two.

Jaskier had his own barely-held beast. A terrible creature that didn't care--truly--that Geralt wanted to be good to him. He didn't want him to be good. 

He wanted him to be the sick bastard he'd said he was.

Jaskier wanted to be _eaten_. To be taken voraciously.

He didn't care what his friend wanted. Fuck his friend.

Fuck Geralt's fear. Fuck is cowardice.

Fuck whoever the two of them were in the daylight. 

The stars were coming out.

They could be whoever they wanted in the nighttime. 

_What_ ever they wanted.

One of them would devour the other in the end. There was no escaping it. The more they clashed the closer they came to the inevitable. Something here would die this evening.

Jaskier hoped it would be Geralt's self-righteousness. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: More talk of non-con, including possibly triggering language.
> 
> Get ready for angst.
> 
> \-----  
> Your comments are <3<3<3

The lewd _smack smack smack_ of Geralt's hips against Jaskier rang out, loud and obscene through the evening air. All else around them was still, silent, but Jaskier hardly noticed. He was caught up in Geralt--in his harshness, his heat, his scent. He was nearly everywhere and nearly everything.

Nearly. 

Geralt grunted on top of him, buried his face in the nape of his neck one moment, kissed his hair the next, then nipped at the top of his spine, licked between his shoulder blades--constantly roaming, unable to settle. He held Jaskier's dick firmly, using the force of his own thrusts to push the bard's wet cock into the tight circle of his fist. His other hand still pressed against Jaskier's tender throat.

The slide of Geralt's cock between his thighs made Jaskier feel like he was going mad. To _almost_ give him what he needed was malice of the highest order. It was too much and not enough. He couldn't take it. Couldn't. 

He was savage with desire for a thing he wasn't allowed to have.

Geralt's cage for his monster was too well built. The creature too well kept.

Having it so close made him ache. Every breath was a punch of his lungs, every thought a stab in his mind. 

Geralt's touch was a salve and sandpaper all at the same time.

To pine for something--for someone--so _deeply_...

Jaskier sobbed then--for real. His lip trembled. He was going to die and it wouldn't be from the potion. He would die by denial. Die because he was lost in a vast desert and his only oasis was a mirage. The water and the shade merely illusions--only real enough to torture, nothing more. 

Yes, Geralt was everywhere--except the one place he truly needed him.

Suddenly, he felt lightheaded. His vision blurred.

"Geralt, it's not...it's not...I _can't_ \--"

His knees shook. He couldn't hold himself up under the Witcher's weight anymore. 

He went limp against Geralt's hands.

Geralt, attentive as always, immediately tensed, stopped thrusting.

"Jaskier?" he asked gruffly.

He wasn't going to pass out. He was simply going to die of frustration, that's all. "I can't take it. I can't--Geralt, if you're not going to have me then stop touching me," he pleaded.

Geralt realized this wasn't part of the game. He pulled back, but didn't let go. Sitting on his haunches, he guided Jaskier gently into his lap, took his weight. He released his cock, his throat--hugging him from behind instead. "If I stop touching you, you'll die," he said gently into his ear.

Jaskier still felt like an animal. The fire still raged through him. He wanted and wanted and _wanted_.

It hurt to want so much.

And the hurt focused his mind.

"So better to torment me with this parody of breeding?" he spat. "No. Better death than this _agony_."

"You don't mean that."

Didn't he? He wasn't sure anymore. He needed him so badly, and if he couldn't have him, then why let this drag out? Why not surrender to the potion's poison now and avoid a lifetime of wishing?

A lifetime of regretting.

Because he wasn't sure...he didn't know...

"Will you even be here in the morning?"

He wished he could see Geralt's eyes. Even if his mouth lied, his eyes would tell the truth.

Geralt said nothing. The silence stretched out.

"Who's leaving who, Geralt?" he asked quietly.

Still, nothing.

Just when he gave up hope of an answer, Geralt swallowed thickly and said, "You won't want me near you."

"Won't want--? I can't get _enough_ of you!"

" _Don't_ ," Geralt snapped. "Don't pretend you don't know what I mean." Roughly, he lifted Jaskier up, turned him around, manhandling him into a new position on his lap so they could face each other. 

Jaskier tried to ignore the way their cocks pressed together. The way they were slick and stiff and--

"I have _violated_ you," Geralt growled. "In more ways than one. I made promises to you and then I broke them when it suited me. I have come _this close_ to _forcing myself inside you_. These things are not so forgivable as your spell-addled mind would have the both of us believe."

Jaskier's lip trembled again, and Geralt looked away, darkness burgeoning across his face. 

"You want me to wake up alone?" Jaskier asked. "After all this?"

"Better than waking up with your _rapist_."

Jaskier couldn't stop his tears. Didn't want to stop them. He threw his arms around Geralt's neck, made him look him in the eye. "Never call yourself that again."

"It's what I am."

"No," Jaskier denied, shaking his head. "No. We agreed to this."

"You've been magically influenced," Geralt bit out. " _You can't rightfully agree to anything_." 

"No. That's not true. I know in my bones that's not true." Unsure of what else to do, he closed his eyes and tried to kiss him.

Geralt pulled away. " _Don't._ Don't be tender with me," he said gruffly.

Jaskier pursed his lips, frustration spilling out of him. " _Why not_? It's not as though you'd ever be tender with _yourself_." He bit the inside of his cheek and looked up at the sky. "I can't be tender with you, you won't be rough enough with me. I ask you: what is this _sorry fucking hell_ we've found ourselves in?"

"Hmm," Geralt replied.

The response was so _typically Geralt_ Jaskier nearly laughed through his tears. He looked down again, brought their foreheads together. "Make me another promise. And don't break it. Whatever you do, you can't break this one." Geralt parted his lips to say something, but Jaskier barreled on before he could protest. "Just, be with me. In the morning. Don't leave me. After that...stay if I tell you to stay."

"And I'll go if you tell me to go."

Jaskier let out a shaky breath. "I'll tell you to stay."

"You'll tell me to go."

 _I'll tell you to make love to me_ , he thought, but could never, _ever_ say.

Tense, sad, and lust-filled, they both fell quiet.

"You feel too hot," Geralt said after a moment.

"I am too hot."

"How can it still be getting worse?"

"Because I need you. I need you _there_." They both knew what he meant. "And I need you here--" He leaned in for a small kiss and Geralt allowed him to take it. "And I need you here--" He reached between them, squeezed both of their cocks together in his palm. "But please know, please--" He took Geralt's hand in his, held it over his rapidly beating heart. "I will always hold you here. No matter what the daylight brings."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to reiterate: They're gonna fuck, I swear it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see there's a general consensus in the comments. You know, kind of a *Just let them fuck, you monster!* vibe. 
> 
> I am so pleased. <3

"Hold on to me," Geralt said suddenly, shifting, raising them both up. 

Jaskier did as he was told, locking his ankles around Geralt's waist. "Where are we going now?"

Geralt grunted as he stood. "Back to camp."

"Why?"

"That's where the supplies are."

Jaskier's heart fluttered. "Supplies?"

Geralt simply _hmm_ ed.

Jaskier put his arms around Geralt's neck, let his chin fall in the crook between Geralt's throat and shoulder as the Witcher spirited him through the trees on sure feet. Jaskier knew he was by no means a small man, and yet Geralt carried him with ease, as though he weighed no more than a child.

It was dark now. A chill in the air. But Jaskier shivered for a different reason. The fever was high, bringing his end closer and closer still. Geralt's grip on him tightened as they trudged on, back over the hill and out of the trees.

When they reached camp, Geralt laid Jaskier on the bedroll before attempting to gather whatever 'supplies' he'd meant. But the moment they parted, pain shot through the bard's stomach, his thighs, his chest. He caught Geralt's hand again before he could move more than a few inches away.

"It's too much now," he said through clenched teeth. 

"I need to get into the saddlebags. I need to start a fire."

"No, don't go--"

"A moment," Geralt reassure him, running a gentle palm over his forehead, down his cheek. "I'll be quick."

And then he was gone. 

Jaskier shuddered. He tried to focus on the pinpricks of light studding the great black-purple expanse of sky, rather than the hot wires that coiled and ripped at his muscles. He gripped the hair on his chest with one hand, the hair on his head with the other, fingers curling, tugging manically. He could hardly breathe, hardly keep still. 

He was ready to tear up his own skin to get beneath it, to try and quell the want for touch.

Geralt was true to his word, gone no more than two minutes, but tears were streaming unrelentingly down the sides of Jaskier's face by then. Geralt rubbed them away with his thumbs, chased the remainder with his lips.

His face was grim as he looked down at his bard. "Here," he said delicately. "Drink." He helped Jaskier sit up, tried to pass him the water skin, but Jaskier's hands were shaking too hard to hold it. Carefully, Geralt tipped a mouthful between Jaskier's lips, wiped at a small bit that escaped to dribble down his chin.

"I still need to build the fire," he said, gesturing to the bits of wood and starter he'd piled on a cleared patch of dirt. 

"Don't--"

"I'm not going to leave you. Come lay against me." He made it clear Jaskier was to drape himself over his back as he worked. 

Geralt crouched down and Jaskier folded over him, relishing this new position. It let him appreciate the tautness of Geralt's back muscles, the expanse of his shoulders, the strength of his neck and the fullness of his hair. Jaskier buried his face in those white locks as his ever-hard cock settled against the base of Geralt's spine. 

The Witcher pretended to take no notice of the way Jaskier gently rolled his hips against him. Even when Jaskier pushed his cock lower, against the cleft of his arse, Geralt made no indication he was bothered, went about scattering the starter and striking the flint as though it were any other fire at any other camp.

Sparks flew. The flames took.

Jaskier guided his cock still lower.

Not until he deliberately prodded at the tight ring of muscle between Geralt's cheeks did the Witcher gasp and tense.

In a flash, he reached back over his shoulder with a firm hand, gripping the scruff of Jaskier's neck, catching him by the nape as though he were a naughty pet. The two of them held perfectly motionless for a handful of heartbeats.

"...Is that what you want?" Geralt asked, voice barely above a whisper.

 _I do. I do. Gods. Fuck_. "Would you let me?" he asked, as if the whole scenario were hypothetical.

"It's not what you need," Geralt said frankly.

Jaskier grimaced at the truth of it. "It's not what I need," he echoed in agreement, voice strained. "But if I asked, would you let me?" He needed to know. He didn't know why, he just did. 

"I've sucked a fair few cocks," Geralt said. "I've had men, but I've never...I've never given myself to one."

It wasn't a yes. It wasn't a no.

Frustrated with Geralt's non-answer, Jaskier bucked forward, made him gasp again. " _Would you let me?_ "

Geralt turned half around to bring them face to face. His eyes were wide, vulnerable. He licked his lips, swallowed thickly.

A tremor shook through him when he answered, " _Yes_."

Jaskier's breath caught in his throat. His cock jumped.

Geralt couldn't hold Jaskier's gaze, looked away quickly--as though the admission was just one more thing that would damn him in the daylight.

Oh, what a honied, filthy syllable: _yes_. Such a small word, but Geralt had handed Jaskier even more power. He had _Butcher_ , and now he had this sweet, meek little _yes_. "Did you decide just now, because I asked? Or have you...? If I'd asked you six months ago--?"

"Yes."

"A year?"

" _Yes_."

"How many years, Geralt?"

"I--I don't know. I don't know when I first looked at you and realized I would give myself to you if..." He grew brave, found Jaskier's eyes again. "As much as I want you to say _no_ to me, if you had asked...I don't think I could have said _no_ to you. I would not have offered, but if you had asked--"

Jaskier cut him off with a kiss. Not a haughty kiss, not a soft kiss, not a dirty kiss. A deep kiss. He tried to put all his long years of yearning into it. How had the two of them been so close all this time and yet worlds away? All those nights on the same bedroll, or even the same real, warm bed at an inn... All those haunted stares and quick glances. How had neither of them bridged this gap until this accursed potion weaseled its way between his lips?

Geralt kissed him back with the same desperation, but after a moment he cooled, pulled away, clearly chiding himself. "Please, don't ask now," he pleaded. "If you ask this of me now..." He shook his head, tossing it like an irritated horse as he turned away.

"What?" Jaskier prompted. "What will happen if I ask now?"

He wanted to. Gods. If he could get himself inside Geralt, and then get Geralt inside him after...

Geralt took a deep breath, steeled himself. "I will, ultimately, do what you need of me to save you," he said. "I'd rather die than hurt you this way, but I'd rather hurt you than let you die. I will do it. Even if it means you rage at me in the morning and never want to see me again, even if it confirms I am the monster I know myself to be." His gaze returned to Jaskier's--so open, so exposed, he looked like a man defenseless. His voice grew hoarse, wounded. "But if you ask _this_ of me...I _will say yes._ And it will _ruin me_. To give such a thing to you--that which I've never offered _anyone_ \--only to have you spurn me in the morning...please... _don't_."

Jaskier's throat went dry. Why was every word out of Geralt's mouth breaking his heart?

"I won't," he promised quickly, despite a sinister thrill that shivered up his spine. "I won't."

The power he'd been given hurt now, and he wished he could give it back. His White Wolf had laid himself so delicately at Jaskier's feet, before his mercy, and a simple request could devastate him forever. Why had he handed Jaskier--who had little to no self-control on his best days--the means of his destruction?

Because oh, how Jaskier _wanted_ to ask. That monster inside him wanted to ask. Just to see Geralt acquiesce. Just to feel a surge of superiority, to delight in his ability to bend the Witcher to his will. To hear Geralt cry out in exquisite anguish as he said _yes_ \--

It would be the worst kind of heaven.

But, _no_. He could never.

Jaskier wrestled with the monster, grimacing as he crushed it, caged it, thrust it back, _back_.

Was this what Geralt had felt like all day? This pain of battle as he fought with an insidious urge to break someone he held dear?

"I won't," he said again, more to himself than Geralt. "But...but, Geralt, I need--"

"I know what you need," Geralt said, voice all gravel. He reached blindly for the pile of items he'd assembled. "I know...and I'm sorry for what I'm about to do to you." His fingers found what they were looking for. He held up a flask of yellowish, viscous liquid between them.

"What's that?" Jaskier breathed, though he knew.

"Cooking oil."

"What's it for?" he asked, licking his lips, wanting to hear him say it. He wouldn’t believe it was really about to happen unless he said it.

He held his breath, hanging on the answer.

"Cooking, generally," Geralt said with a frown.

Jaskier let out his breath in a huff. "You bastard," he said lightly, playfully, "You know what I meant. I hate you, you bastard."

It was the playfulness that seemed to strike Geralt harder than if Jaskier had said the words with sincerity. "I hope you won't...in the end," he said darkly.

"Shut up," Jaskier said hurriedly, not wanting Geralt to fall back into his melancholy. He slid off him, took his face between his hands. "Shut up and save me. Shut up and _fuck_ me. _Please_ , just fuck me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys just keep threatening each other with emotions instead of fucking what the fuck.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote The Amazing Devil: Welcome to my table, bring your hunger.

"I will," Geralt said quietly, setting down the flask, putting his hands on Jaskier's hips. "I'm going to fuck you. I'll give you everything you need."

Jaskier's insides turned into a pool of molten desire. It felt like he'd been waiting years--centuries-- _millennia_ \--for Geralt to give him what he wanted. "Say it again," he insisted earnestly, fingers fluttering along Geralt's jaw.

Geralt's gaze narrowed as he took in the way Jaskier's entire body tensed with excitement. "I'm going to fuck you."

Jaskier leaned in, whispered against Geralt's lips. "What are you going to do?"

" _Fuck. You_ ," Geralt purred.

Jaskier kissed him with his eyes closed, snaked his tongue between his lips, moaning into his mouth. He tried-- _once more_ \--to crawl into Geralt's lap, but-- _once more_ \--Geralt admonished him. "I have to prepare you first."

 _I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready, oh_ Gods _I've never been more ready for anything in my entire_ \--

"I need to make sure I don't hurt you," Geralt continued. "I need to be certain that you can take...take all of me. I warned you: if I start, I won't be able to stop. I won't be able to keep myself in check. I've wanted you like this for so long. Once I'm inside you..." He trailed off.

Jaskier shuddered. "If you keep talking like that, I'm going to come."

"Like what?" Geralt asked, feigning ignorance. He knew exactly what his words were doing to Jaskier.

The bard whimpered, ran one hand down Geralt's chest, raking his nails desperately through the hair he found there. He wanted to be closer. Wanted to claw his way beneath Geralt's skin. Wanted Geralt to rip him open and settle inside. He needed them entwined.

Geralt placed a palm on the back of Jaskier's neck, put his lips to his ear. Jaskier could feel the smirk--the sneering quirk of the Witcher's mouth--as he spoke. "Once I'm inside you, the monster will be free. I will lose my mind, my self-control. I will _take_ and _take_ and _take_ from you until I am content... And I don’t know if I'll ever _be_ content."

Jaskier reached for his own dick, encircling it in a too-firm fist, trying not to come from sheer anticipation alone. Geralt's grip on his nape tightened--his breath was warm on the side of his face, and the bard couldn’t help but pant into the night air.

"You're helpless," Geralt growled. "Reckless. Vulnerable. What I've always dreamed of. And..." he moaned deep in his throat, "I'm going to fuck you _so thoroughly_. I _could_ take you this instant. Force myself inside you, tight and dry. You would let me. _Fuck_ , you would welcome it, wouldn't you? I could break you so easily, tear into you without a second thought. But I'd rather you were well-stretched."

Jaskier's lips tingled as his breath came high and fast.

"Even with the help of the potion, my stamina may outlast yours," Geralt said, pulling back to look Jaskier in the eye. "So, before we begin, I need to know--"

"Yes," Jaskier blurted.

Geralt titled his head, gave him a fond half-smile. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Whatever it is--"

" _Shh_. I need to know two things. Firstly, if the potion wears off and I'm not finished with you, I need you to promise to tell me. You can't be... _Don't_ be afraid of me. Don't be afraid to shout out Marx's name."

"What if...what if it wears off and I don't want you to stop?"

Geralt's expression changed, like he had a knife to his throat. "I know you think you'll keep feeling this way--"

 _I will_. "What if I _do_? Keep feeling this way?"

Geralt closed his eyes for a brief moment, holding on to the idea, cherishing it. "Then tell me that, too."

Jaskier nodded frantically. "I promise."

"Secondly, unless you say Marx's name, I'm likely not to...to _heed_ whatever directions you give me. I won't be mindful of much more than the fact that I have what I want. If you don't want me to come inside you, tell me now."

A surge of pleasure racked Jaskier. He squeezed himself harder. "Come inside me," he demanded. "Come inside me, come inside me, please, fuck, _please_ \--"

"Shh. _Shhh_. Alright," Geralt agreed. "Alright. I'll come inside you."

"I need you," Jaskier hissed through his teeth. "I need you now. _Now_ , Geralt. Don't make me wait any longer. _Now_."

Geralt swiped up the flask of oil and guided Jaskier over to the bedroll. "Lie on your back," he said, voice thick, words heavy. "This would be easiest with you on all fours, but I...I want to watch your face while I open you."

"To make sure I'm alright?"

Geralt shook his head--almost imperceptibly--as he knelt. "I just want to see you."

Jaskier sank down into position, stretching out languidly. Gently, Geralt pushed Jaskier's legs open, bade him throw the right one over the Witcher's left shoulder. Uncorking the cooking oil, he poured a generous amount onto his right palm and closed his fist, slicking up his fingers.

Jaskier licked his lips, watching different expressions flit across his Witcher's face. Hunger. Elation. Disillusion. Anger. Apprehension.

Softness.

Darkness.

Desperation.

Leaning against Jaskier's raised thigh, Geralt reached his clean hand out, ran his fingers through Jaskier's hair, caught and held his gaze. "I don't deserve you," he said. "And you don't deserve this."

Before Jaskier could get out his reply, Geralt was dipping his oiled fingers into the cleft of his arse.

The bard gasped. "I _do_ deserve this. Gods, I've fucking _earned_ it."

Two of Geralt's fingers circled his entrance, covering him in oil, slicking his backside. 

Jaskier growled greedily, cock twitching against his belly. He grabbed at Geralt's hand in his hair, slid it down over his cheek, brought Geralt's thumb to his mouth. He sucked it in as Geralt cupped his jaw.

Geralt's lips parted slightly, hanging open as he took deep, shaky breaths.

He pressed his oiled hand forward.

Pressed _in_.

Jaskier sighed around his thumb.

As he slid one thick finger into Jaskier, Geralt ground his teeth, and his eyelashes fluttered. He keened in pleasure, the sound strident in the back of his throat. Pushing gently, he thrust in up to the third knuckle, letting out a sharp breath like he'd been punched once he'd pressed in as far as he could go.

And then he curled his finger forward, knowing exactly where to find that delicious bundle of nerves inside.

Jaskier's dick pulsed and his eyes rolled back.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck--_

_Fucking--_

_Fuck._

The bard dug his heel into Geralt's back, trying to draw him closer, deeper.

Gods, if the Witcher looked this debauched and felt _this good_ when he had no more than a _finger_ in him-- 

"Be rough with me," he demanded. He took Geralt's thumb between his teeth, bit down.

"I will, I _will_ \--" Geralt soothed, breathless. "There's no stopping it. But not now. Not this part. The gentler I am now, the rougher I can be later."

"More," Jaskier barked. "Give me _more_."

Geralt paused, indecisive. But the moment passed and he slid a second finger in beside the first.

Which god did Jaskier have to thank for Geralt's _big fucking hands_? Only two fingers in and the bard could almost pretend he already had a cock inside him. Almost.

Geralt worked him slowly, deliberately, thrusting in and out, scissoring his fingers. Jaskier writhed at the touch, and he clamped onto the thumb in his mouth like it was a life line.

Eventually Geralt added a third, and Jaskier bucked. He'd definitely taken cocks that big before. As big as three of Geralt's gods damned fingers. He was ready, he could--

Geralt seemed to know what he was thinking. "You're going to need a fourth."

Jaskier tossed his head. " _Be rough with me_ ," he growled again. "Don't give me another finger, give me your fucking _cock_."

"I can make you come this way," Geralt said slyly. "Would you like that?"

"Don't try to appease me with your witchering sex tricks you--you--" He was bad at insults even when he _didn't_ have a man three fingers deep in his arse. "--you-- _Witcher_."

Geralt curled those three fingers. Twisted just so, thrust just so. 

Pleasure coiled in Jaskier's groin. He clawed at the bedroll, raised his hips, seeking out more friction, more depth. He wanted to feel so full of Geralt in everyway--

Geralt worked in and out of him with precision, making his own delightful panting sounds as he went. He gripped Jaskier by his upraised thigh, using it for leverage.

And then, suddenly, he added that fourth finger. 

Too soon, by rights. 

Too soon, and yet at the perfect moment.

The stretch sent Jaskier over the edge. The coil released, snapping, flinging sparks-- scorching and bright--through his body. He cried out as he came again, his dick utterly untouched. 

He was only vaguely aware of Geralt matching him shout for shout. 

Only vaguely aware, until he felt something hot and wet splatter against the inside of his thigh. 

Geralt's hand stilled. His forehead fell against the knee draped over his shoulder. His body quaked. "You have no right to be so pretty when you come," he growled, voice wrung out.

Jaskier hadn't caught his breath yet, but he tried to sit up, tried to see if-- "Did--did you--?"

Geralt nodded against his leg, hiding his face. 

Jaskier collapsed back. "Fuck."

"I told you," Geralt rumbled, "I can't control myself." He tilted his head, bit the inside of Jaskier's leg. "I can't stop myself. I can't..."

He pulled his hand from Jaskier's body, and the bard bucked, yelled. Geralt swiftly wiped his oiled palm up Jaskier's thigh, gathering the come he'd left there, growling as he did so. With more force than necessary, he smeared it against Jaskier's readied backside.

"I can't stop," he said again, moving quickly, grabbing his own cock, pushing on Jaskier's leg, positioning himself at his entrance. "I can't--"

"Then don't," Jaskier said. "Don't stop. _Don't stop_."

Geralt leaned fully over Jaskier, cock nudging right where they both wanted it. He grabbed at Jaskier's throat, whispered against his chin, "Don't hate me for this. _Don't hate me_. So many people hate me. Not you. You _arse_. Gods damn you for this. Gods damn the both of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so fucking evil for ending the chapter there, I'm sorry.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready?

Geralt's muscles strained with the effort to hold himself back while he gritted out these last few words, "Once I cross this line, there's no uncrossing it." He mouthed at Jaskier's jaw, drew his teeth along it. "I will now, always and forever, have had my cock inside you."

"It's what I want," Jaskier mumbled, trying to reassure his Witcher, even though his mind was foggy and his body urged him to forget himself and simply feel. "It's what I want. What I want--"

"What if I can't give it up?" Geralt asked, pressing forward ever so slightly with his hips, making Jaskier fidget and moan with how close they were to finally, _finally_ \-- "What if I take you now, and you send me away after, but the monster is free--for good? What if I can't stop hunting you? What if I can't stop...hurting you?" His voice simmered over with self-doubt and self-loathing.

"Geralt, _don't stop_ ," Jaskier whined. "Your prey is weak, _willing,_ and wanting. You can hunt me until the end of time. _You can_. I will let you--" _Presuming I even live to see the morning_ \-- " _Please_." He gritted his teeth.

Geralt leaned in harder--pushing on Jaskier's leg, still flung over his shoulder. He forced it firmly against Jaskier's abdomen, which had the marvelous effect of lifting his arse. Jaskier pulled up his other knee, let his leg fall open, exposing himself fully. The wide head of Geralt's cock--warm and insistent--was barely spreading him. Almost inside. 

Jaskier could shift just so and _make_ Geralt slip into him, he knew he could.

But he needed Geralt to do it. For sanity's sake. If he forced Geralt's hand any further, Geralt was likely to break his promise--the one Jaskier had insisted was unbreakable: that he be here in the morning.

Jaskier couldn't bear it if he woke up and Geralt was gone.

"I'm afraid for you," Geralt whispered, shaking. "I want you so much. And I shouldn't. I shouldn't want anything this much."

"You're allowed to want things."

"Not like this."

Jaskier licked his lips. He didn't know what to say to Geralt to make him believe everything would turn out alright. He didn't know if the words even existed.

"I will still want you, after. _I will still want you_. I won't hate you."

"I want to believe you," Geralt breathed. "I don't want it to be magic. I don't want it to be some madness."

"It's _not_ madness, it's not. I've _always_ \--" Jaskier cut himself off as a desperate thought struck him. A terrible thought. One that asked a question--yes or no--and either answer might be the end of him. "T-tell me plainly," he said slowly, "It _was_ a sex potion, wasn't it? _Just_ a sex potion?"

Geralt leaned up to look Jaskier in the eye, brow crooked in a concerned question, mouth panting hot just a few inches above Jaskier's lips.

"N-not...not a..." He needed to ask, to say it, but the word felt erroneous in his mouth, and he worried Geralt would take it the wrong way. "...not a _love_ potion?"

He had to ask.

Because he _did_.

Love him.

Desperately.

Geralt sucked in a sharp breath.

Jaskier instinctually dug his heel more firmly into Geralt's back. He didn't want him to bolt--not now. 

He couldn't ruin everything _now_.

Worry brought Jaskier's words to him in a rush--in a flood--and he spilled them into the air with all the rambling force of a white-water river.

"I don't--I don't mean _love_ in the fawning way milkmaids and farm boys say it to one another before running off to spite their parents. I don't mean it in a selfish way, like a man demanding fidelity of his wife. I don’t mean it with the grand melodrama of a virgin declaring her first lover has ruined her for all others. That's not...that's not how I...

"I _love you_. When I told you I would always hold you in my heart, I meant it. That's, that's how I-- It's love, but not what they speak of in ballads and poems, it's--"

He didn’t know how to describe what he felt for Geralt. But he needed to make him understand. 

"I just want to be with you," he whispered, "Near you, in whatever way you'll allow it. I want to stitch your wounds, and prepare your baths, and get told off for not staying behind at the inn like I'm supposed to. To earn your haughty glares when I make ill-timed jokes, and...and if there is a _chance_ you might permit me to touch you without the need of a needle or salve between us, then...

"You have to understand," he insisted, curling a hand around the back of Geralt's neck, holding on like he could slip away into nothingness if he let go. "You have to understand this love so you can tell me if I've imagined it. Imagined I've felt this way for _sixteen years_. Can the potion concoct such a reality? Make me only _think_ I've yearned for you--your company, your nearness? For your friendship, yes, but also...

"You must know already--if this is real, if it's not the potion--that the love I have for you is why I keep coming back. Not for the stories, not for the fame, or the coin. I keep returning to _you_ , despite the danger, and despite the mishaps. Despite the gore that ruins my clothes and the _many_ pages of nearly-finished songs I've lost over cliff faces. Despite the way you bark at me, half-ignore me, and the way you fuck sorceresses right in front of me. Despite--"

" _Jaskier_ ," Geralt snapped. "Shut up."

Jaskier shut his mouth. His lip trembled.

He knew he wouldn't have confessed to desiring his friend if not for this awful poison. But the desire itself was genuine. These long years of pining were no magical fancy. He'd possessed these feelings before the flask, and he would possess them after. They were genuine. They had to be.

Didn't they?

What if they weren't?

Everything was muddled, mixed up--

No.

_No._

He knew himself.

Geralt's muscles still shook, his entire body was wound tight. Barely restrained. "It _wasn't_ a love potion." 

He said it so harshly, with such a bite--

Tears blurred Jaskier's vision. He nodded to himself, looked away from Geralt. He knew he should feel relieved, but for some reason it made everything seem worse. Made the intensity of his wanting _worse_. "Yeah. Good," he said spitefully. "Good to know the ache in my cock could be fake, but the pain in my chest is mine. All mine."

"It is," Geralt agreed. "It's yours."

"Great. Spectacular."

"Jaskier."

" _What_?"

"That means it's _real_." Geralt brought his forehead down to Jaskier's, eyes fluttering closed. "That at least something here is _real_. The potion can lie, but not about everything. Not about...not about that."

"You--you believe me?"

"I believe you." He pulled back again, only a few inches, and held Jaskier's gaze as firmly as he held his throat. Licking his lips, he thumbed lovingly at the bard's pulse point.

His expression went hungry. 

Eyes frantic.

Everything in him was taut, balanced on a knife point.

He just needed a push.

" _I want you_ ," Jaskier prompted. " _Inside me_."

The thin leash of doubt that had been holding Geralt back _snapped_.

"Fuck," he gritted out, fingers constricting around Jaskier's throat. " _I believe you_."

With a keening, desperate sound, he rolled his hips forward-- _thrusting_ into Jaskier.

The bard cried out and bowed against the bedroll as Geralt split him open on his cock. 

_Yes, yes, yes--shit--oh gods--oh_ fuck _\--yes_.

The Witcher sank in slowly, but forcefully, gliding deep, deep, deep inside Jaskier until he was buried to the hilt. 

Jaskier's breath came fast, hard. His entire lower body tingled. It was even better than he'd imagined, these sensations--the weight of Geralt on top of him, inside him. His own cock spurted and twitched, throbbing as Geralt trapped it between their abdomens.

Gods, Jaskier really _had_ needed that fourth finger. He'd never taken a cock as big as Geralt's before--not even close. Fuck, why did every inch of him have to be thick and sexy and perfect?

The bard's mouth fell open--he meant to say something, but simply panted instead. He held Geralt's eyes, determined to see into them, behind them. He would make sure this feeling--of being stretched and full--along with the look of bliss on Geralt's face, was burned into his memory forever.

It was Geralt who looked away first, clearly overcome. Jaskier tried to chase his gaze, not ready to lose it, not ready to let go of the vulnerability he saw there. But Geralt let his face fall into the crook of Jaskier's neck, hiding himself away.

Instead of pulling back, Geralt bucked forward, as though he could get deeper. He did it again, and again--pushing Jaskier up the bedroll--a growl resounding in his chest. Jaskier flung both hands onto Geralt's back, raking his spine with his nails, gasping with every insistent push.

Geralt fumbled for Jaskier's left wrist with his right hand, pulling it from his back, pinning it up beside the bard's head--pressing it into the bedroll with the same force he pressed Jaskier's own leg into his belly. With the same force he pressed _into_ Jaskier.

With a sigh, Geralt bit his bard's neck, twisting the supple skin between his teeth, wringing lovely little exclamations from his lips.

Not until Jaskier let out a shaky, " _Geralt_ ," did the Witcher wrench his hips back, thrusting forward again in one fast, harsh slide.

" _Fuck_ ," Jaskier whimpered. His toes curled.

Geralt _hmm_ ed in reply. He thrust that way again. And again. Pulling out languidly, then punctuating the slowness with a quick, deep inward shove.

" _Harder_ ," Jaskier demanded. He fisted Geralt's hair, yanked. " _Fuck me_. _Harder_."

Geralt didn't have to be told twice.

He grabbed for Jaskier's other leg, threw it over his shoulder as well, bending the bard in half, placing the full weight of his chest onto him--clearly desperate to be _closer closer closer_. His big hands encircled Jaskier's waist, and he used the grip to pull Jaskier down onto his cock with every harsh jab of his hips.

Jaskier held onto the bedroll for dear life.

Geralt's pace increased, his rhythm steady, swift--brutal. He gritted his teeth, and when he looked at Jaskier his eyes went dark, unfocused. His muscles shook as he let himself plunder, let himself have what he had so desperately sought to deny. With every smack of his hips his fingers dug further into the bard's tender flesh--claiming, marking.

Geralt growled, deep and monstrous--a needy sound, like he had what he wanted but would never be sated. 

He bit at the bolt of Jaskier's jaw, licked at his pulse, ran his nose up the column of his neck to take in his scent while he rammed his cock into Jaskier with the same strength he used to ram a sword into man or beast.

Jaskier would have so many, many bruises in the morning.

But the bard didn't care.

His cock _pulsed_. The stretch--the glide over his prostate--Geralt's delicious fucking grunting--the force of Geralt's hips against him-- _in_ him--the fucking gods damned smell of sex all around them--

It was magnificent. All of it. 

It had been _so_ worth it--the denials, the waiting, the heat, the ache. Everything about this wretched accident had been worth it for _this_. 

For Geralt fucking him like a mad man.

Rutting into him like he could never get deep enough.

"I need you," Geralt mumbled, like he didn't even realize he was speaking, " _I need you, I need you. I need more_. _More of you_."

_Have whatever you want. Take whatever you want_. 

Jaskier could barely think, let alone speak. He threw his arms around Geralt's neck, held him close, pressed his lips to his ear. "All of me," he said. "Have all of me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this thing I told myself there would be no love confessions because it would be out of character. I also told myself they'd fuck by chapter 12, so apparently I am bad at this.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Welly Boots" is fucking me up tonight. Damn Joey for "It's like I've gone off to the coast." The way he sings it hurts fantastically even without The Witcher connotations. 
> 
> So, have some more angst.

"I need..." Geralt continued, barely above a whisper. "I want..."

Jaskier pulled back, cupped Geralt's face, made him look him in the eye.

And what the bard saw made him shiver.

Geralt didn't look like himself. His pupils were wide, his golden irises little more than glittering rings around the edge. His jaw was slack, mouth open, brow smooth--unworried. Pure, unthinking pleasure gave him a far-away, dreamy look.

He saw Jaskier, but not with a conscious eye. Normally Geralt's mind never stopped working, never stopped calculating. But here it was, emptied of anything. Anything but the pleasure he took from Jaskier.

Geralt's gaze fell to Jaskier's lips. "I need..." he mumbled, the words clearly tumbling from him unconsciously.

He lightly grazed his mouth over Jaskier's, his thrusts becoming more ragged, uneven. He never made it a proper kiss, just held his lips open--teasing--both of them enjoying the flutter-light sensations. 

"Geralt," Jaskier whispered, swallowing thickly, not asking for anything, just wanting to say his name. Wanting to taste it on his tongue as the man he'd desired for so long worked his cock inside him, making the terrible fever go away--replacing it with an altogether different kind of warmth.

The Witcher rumbled out an appreciative, "Mmm," at the sound of his name, then flicked the tip of his tongue into Jaskier's mouth, but no more.

The slide of Geralt's cock inside him was so slick, smooth. The length of him so hard, splitting Jaskier so firmly. Ecstasy pooled in the bard's lower belly, trickled up his groin. If Geralt would settle on one speed, one level of force, for more than a few minutes at a time, Jaskier was sure he could come this way just as readily as he'd come on Geralt's fingers. Without a hand or a mouth gracing his own weeping prick.

After a few more irregular, languid thrusts, Geralt released Jaskier's hips and instead curled his hands around the back of Jaskier's shoulders. This made his pull and press different, somehow more intimate, and Geralt more dominant. The Witcher bent his neck, resting his forehead on Jaskier's breastbone as he fucked into him, pulling out and re-sheathing himself at his leisure.

Jaskier's legs started to quiver, his hips and groin unaccustomed to the stretch of this particular position.

But he didn't complain. For once in his life, he welcomed the strain. 

Geralt noticed, however, and leaned up to study Jaskier's face.

The sudden concern, plus the hazy aura of pleasure, gave Geralt a unique expression. One the bard had never seen on his face before--different from the glassy, distant look of minutes ago. 

His countenance was exceedingly gentle. Fond. Caring.

And now it was Jaskier's turn to glance away, unable to hold Geralt's eyes while he looked like that--while he looked _at_ Jaskier _like that_ while still buried inside him.

Because it was _too_ soft, _too_ kind, _too_ affectionate. 

It made Jaskier's chest constrict. 

It made him feel like they weren't just fucking.

It made him feel like Geralt was making love to him.

Which should have been wonderful.

But it hurt. 

It hurt because Geralt wouldn't _make love_ to anyone. Certainly not to him.

Not after...not after all the things the Witcher had told him. About the ways he wanted him. Very specific, very violent, non-making-love ways.

And he especially wouldn't after Jaskier had...

Had...

Confessed to being in love with him, even if that love was ill-defined.

Because Geralt would _know better_. He _knew_ not to make love to someone if you didn't love them back.

Geralt had accepted Jaskier's confession as some sort of sign, but he hadn't...

Jaskier knew Geralt wasn't the type to say _I love you_. He didn't need him to, or, really, even _want_ him to say it back. He didn't want to change Geralt for anything, that was the whole point--was so much a part of Jaskier's love for his Witcher.

And Jaskier wasn't a dolt who bought into the whole "Witchers don't have feelings" nonsense. Of course they did. Geralt might shove his emotions down and rarely show them to anyone, but Jaskier had known him long enough to be certain he felt just as thoroughly as any unmutated human.

Which was why he was certain Geralt would never make love to him. Because Geralt would understand how much pain it would cause Jaskier. How much it would only deepen Jaskier's longing to be close to him in all ways. It would be a glimpse into a level of affection Jaskier would never truly have--that Geralt could never truly give him. 

There was love in Geralt for him, yes. But it wasn’t the same. And that was fine. 

It was.

Fine. 

So, Jaskier couldn't look at him. Because if he looked at Geralt and tricked himself into thinking he saw that kind of love, he'd never want Geralt to look at him any other way. He'd obsess night and day over how to get that look _back_. How to make it stick.

Jaskier would be undone.

"Am I hurting you?" Geralt asked softly.

The fucking _sincerity_ of the question was too much.

Jaskier's mind screamed _no_ and _yes_ simultaneously. It hurt so badly one way, and not nearly enough in another.

The bard let out a shaky breath, snapped his eyes back to Geralt's. "I was _promised_ abuses," he spat. "I _want_ you to hurt me." 

_Fuck me hard._

_Hit me._

_Anything to make me forget about my heart and just think about my cock_. 

"Jaskier," Geralt breathed--almost _patronizingly_ , the whoreson. "You don't have to keep trying to please me."

"I don't want to please you," Jaskier snapped. "I want _you_ to please _me_...Butcher."

The darkness flashed across Geralt's face--but, for some reason, he chased it away. "Are you sure?" he whispered.

"You said I'd never forgive you for what you'd do to me."

 _And I_ can't. _I won't forgive you for making me hope for even half a heartbeat that you might make love to me_. _That you might be in love with me at all_.

He felt the tears prickling again, and this time he hated himself for it. But he didn't look away. "Prove to me just how brutal you can be, Butcher. Make. Me. _Scream_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, you two! You were just supposed to fuck, why are you still weaponizing your feelings???


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all didn't really think there would be 20,000 words of foreplay and then like two paragraphs of fucking, did you?

"Jaskier," Geralt said again, entirely too softly, too gently. "If that's what you want..." Geralt swallowed as though he had a knot in his throat, then surged forward to kiss him. Jaskier was surprised to feel a tremble in Geralt's lips.

Geralt said something else as he pulled away--sitting back on his haunches while keeping his dick buried--but Jaskier couldn't quite make it out. The bard's idiot ears tried to convince him he'd said, "...but I don't think it is."

 _It is. It is_. 

With a dip of his spine, Geralt let Jaskier's legs fall from his shoulders.

The Witcher looked magnificent in the firelight--chest heaving, glistening with sweat. His hair wild, scars prominent. One side of him aglow, the other melting into shadows.

 _Gods_ , Jaskier thought, _how can you ache to fuck someone when they're already damnit-all balls-deep inside you_?

As though Geralt had heard him, the Witcher quirked his lip in a sinister smirk, then pulled out of Jaskier entirely.

The bard whined at the loss, somehow not realizing just how full he'd been until he was emptied. 

Geralt leaned over to his small pile of "supplies," body stretching in a long, strong line. He came back with a lengthy strip of black cloth wrapped around his left hand.

With the other, he reached for the flask of oil again, upending more of it--but not all of it--directly onto Jaskier's cock, making sure it dripped down over his balls, between his cheeks. Setting the flask gingerly aside, he took hold of Jaskier's cock, tugging firmly.

"Tell me _no_ ," Geralt ordered, punctuating it with a twist on Jaskier's cock head. 

"No," Jaskier gasped, with naught one ounce of sincerity. The worst play-actors on the Continent would have been able to give a more convincing single-syllable performance.

Geralt smacked him soundly in the ear with his wrapped hand, disappointed--clearly expecting more enthusiasm. 

Jaskier instinctually brought his hands up to fend off the blow, ducking away, trying to curl onto his side, toward the fire. Geralt's insistent grip on his cock kept him from shifting far, and a particularly skilled stroke down his shaft had Jaskier thrusting despite himself.

Geralt let out a cruel chuckle. "What was that?"

" _No_!" Jaskier spat, pushing himself up onto one elbow, body twisted--hips squared at Geralt, torso angled off into the camp. 

"Better," Geralt growled.

He took the strip of cloth between his teeth, unwinding half the length of it from his hand. With a fierce yank of his head, he tore it in two. 

After a few more delicious strokes of Jaskier's cock, he looped the black fabric--which was soft, silky--and strung it under Jaskier's sack, swiftly trussing up the bard's dick and balls like they were a winter goose for roasting. 

Jaskier bit his lip and groaned with each wrap, tug, and twist of the cloth. "If you think that'll keep me hard or stop me from coming, I have news for--"

Geralt finished it off with a nice knot at the top, the yank of his last tie cutting off Jaskier's words.

"It's not for practical purposes." The Witcher hummed, running a light finger up Jaskier's perineum. "I just like the look of you gift-wrapped."

Jaskier's heart fluttered.

Without another word, Geralt unraveled the rest from his fist and secured the strip between his lips as he reached for Jaskier's shoulders. He manhandled the bard first into a sitting position, then up onto his knees.

Jaskier attempted to struggle, but found his muscles and bones weaker than expected. He could do little more than pant in Geralt's grip, letting him shove him wherever he wanted.

Geralt took Jaskier's wrists in one hand, pressed them together, then began to tie them just as readily as he'd tied his cock. He secured the bonds with another strong knot, tucking the ends in. 

"Perfect," Geralt purred. His voice was still low and soft, but also predatory.

"Perfect _my arse,_ you bastard."

The Witcher reached over Jaskier's bound hands, took him by the throat. "You're lucky I have use for your mouth, lest there be another length of this between your teeth."

"Touch me again, Butcher," Jaskier snarled, doing his best to sound angry, "And I assure you, _I will have your_ length _between my teeth_."

"Brave, aren't you?" Geralt said snidely.

He reached for something else. Jaskier tried to see what, but Geralt's fingers still clutched at his windpipe, keeping him from turning his head.

The waterskin appeared between them. Geralt uncorked it with his teeth before holding it to Jaskier's lips. "Drink."

Jaskier raised an eyebrow skeptically. An offering of hydration wasn't very...Butcher-like behavior. "No."

"Drink."

"No. What are you--?"

"I want to feel your pretty throat working as you swallow. I'll drench you with it if that's what it takes. _Drink_."

Jaskier parted his lips and tilted his head back, letting Geralt pour the water into his mouth. He gulped as quickly as he could, but it wasn't fast enough. He drank much of it, but still ended up spluttering, coughing.

Geralt groaned in appreciation, eyes hungrily taking in the rivulets of water that ran down Jaskier's chin, to his neck, over Geralt's hand. He yanked Jaskier close, making the bard bunch his bound hands beneath his chin. The Witcher's lips found his ear. "If you look this good choking on a few mouthfuls of water, imagine how you'd look choking on my _cock_."

Jaskier keened, high and needy, but still made a play at pushing Geralt away, shoving at his collar bone. 

"Hmm," Geralt mused thoughtfully, "Maybe next time."

Next time?

Jaskier felt like his soul had left his body. 

_Next time_.

Oh, _fuck_. 

_Next time_.

Too lost in the mild existential crisis brought on by the suggestion that not only would they survive this night--physically, emotionally--but that there might be _more nights like it_ , he didn't fully comprehend at first that Geralt was moving him--raising his arms, slinging them over Geralt's head so that Jaskier was encircling his neck.

He felt intoxicated, dizzy. "I--wh-what--?"

Geralt sat back on the bedroll. Stretching out his legs, he pulled Jaskier into his lap, but kept him partially raised on his knees. As Jaskier panted, Geralt took hold of the bard's trussed-up cock and _squeezed_.

Jaskier curled forward with a cry, head resting in the crook of Geralt's neck. It was too much. The cloth was tight. His dick throbbed, straining beneath, the supple skin of it even darker under the added pressure. 

With one hand, Geralt grabbed Jaskier's hair, pulling him back, capturing his eyes with pointed glare. His other hand moved to clutch his own dick, guiding it.

The hot, blunt head of Geralt's prick prodded at Jaskier's entrance, pushed _inside_ and held steady. Just the tip and no more.

"Fuck yourself on my cock," he demanded.

Jaskier whined, chin out, the insistent fingers in his hair keeping his head tilted back. " _No_."

Geralt moved his hand from his own cock to Jaskier's hip and pushed down, easing in a centimeter more. "You're not really in a position to deny me."

Jaskier resisted the push. "Stop. _Stop it_."

More force. Another centimeter. "Fuck yourself."

"No. _Stop_!"

And another.

Geralt's lips curled with cruelty. "You're going to flush with shame when you make yourself come on my cock."

" _No_." Jaskier's legs trembled.

"You are. You'll be so pretty, so _humiliated_."

"Shut up."

"You keep telling me you don't want it, but your slutty cock doesn't care. Look at you, hard for me. Disgraceful."

He pushed harder. 

Feigning reluctance, having barely been able to hold himself back, Jaskier sank down.

He let it punch a sob from his chest. 

Geralt was so much _deeper_ this way.

Geralt, for his part, couldn't maintain his callous expression. His lips parted, eyebrows rose, and a quiet little gasp escaped him once Jaskier was seated flush against him.

They both held still for a long moment, breathing heavily.

Eventually, Geralt spoke. "Fuck yourself," he said again, only this time he sounded desperate. He still held Jaskier's hair, but let his own forehead fall to the bard's chest. "Fuck...fuck me." He kissed his breast bone. "Please." Pressed his cheek over his heart. "Jaskier, _fuck me_. _Please_."

Now who was begging?

Jaskier rolled his hips, grinding down, pushing Geralt as deep as possible. Again. And again.

He kept his pace steady, fast, firm. He ground over and over. Relentlessly. He was bone-tired but refused to let up.

Gods, he felt so good. His entire body alight. His senses were both zinging and subdued--like he was sex-drunk.

Both of Geralt's hands moved to Jaskier's back, clutching at him, embracing him.

After a long while the Witcher's moans became uneven, the sounds fragmented into stutter-stops. He pawed at Jaskier's spine, his shoulders, his lower back--hands scrambling, pushing, almost lifting. 

"Jas-Jaskier," he gasped. "I'm--"

"Come inside me," Jaskier whispered through panting breaths, hips working. "You said you would. You promised. _You promised_."

" _Jaskier_." He said it like it was a god's name, and he was that god's most devout priest.

Another handful of thrusts.

Then a pained shout wracked Geralt, his entire body shuddering.

Warmth flooded into Jaskier.

In more ways than one.

He'd made his Witcher come.

He wasn't sure why, but it filled him with pride.

He kept moving, but laid his cheek on top of Geralt's head, closed his eyes. 

Geralt took gasping breaths against his chest.

Jaskier's heart swelled.

 _It's not fair_ , he thought. _It's not fair that I should ache for you with you so deep inside me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, strange as it seems, I feel the need to reassure you that the morning after *is* coming soon, don't fret.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Extended talk of blood play and...branding, I guess? ETA: Maiming?  
> Just a touch more of the rough to balance out the soft.

Once Geralt's breathing had evened out again, Jaskier un-looped his arms from over the Witcher's head. Geralt looked up, a question in his eyes.

Jaskier didn't say anything, instead he set his bound hands gently against Geralt's chest, pushed. Geralt leaned back slowly, let Jaskier encourage him down, until his shoulders hit the bedroll, his hair fanning out around his head in a wild crown.

Jaskier allowed himself to simply _look_ at Geralt for a moment. To appreciate him. From the scar over his right brow, to his wide eyes, to the strong bridge of his nose paired with the strong cut of his jaw. The bow of his lips and the dimple in his chin.

Jaskier had stared plenty of times, but he'd never felt like he was _allowed_ to look before.

Geralt's hands settled on the bard's hips, one thumb rubbing an absent-minded circle over his skin.

Jaskier wanted to believe all the fear had left Geralt. That he'd meant what he'd said about _next time_. That he could ignore the lingering magic and just _have this_.

But Geralt had never been one to go easy on himself if a more dire evaluation was readily available. He might currently be sinking into pleasure just as surely as he was sinking into Jaskier, but there was still a greasy film of self-loathing clinging to him. 

That was why he refused to be as rough as he truly wanted. That was why he'd overcompensated with excruciating gentleness. 

Jaskier wanted Geralt to tear at his flesh, but instead he insisted on tearing at his heart--and without even realizing, which made it all the more unbearable.

Pressing on Geralt's sternum for leverage, Jaskier lifted himself up, then dropped back down on Geralt's cock--the slide made all the easier by Geralt's fresh come inside him.

Geralt's eyelashes fluttered, his hands dragging down to clutch at Jaskier's thighs, nails digging a new set of half-moons into his skin. He watched Jaskier with fascination as the bard rose up and thrust down.

Jaskier knew he should be too exhausted for this. Knew the potion was propping up his stamina--after all, when was the last time he'd been able to pull off three orgasms in one night, let alone remain rock-hard through the whole thing?--but he couldn't bring himself to be mad at the magic for _that_.

"Tell me more," Jaskier breathed, increasing his force, ramming himself down onto Geralt's lap. "...about making me bleed."

With a groan, Geralt's eyes rolled back, but he said nothing.

Fine. Jaskier could talk enough for the both of them.

"Would you claw me?" Jaskier prompted, punctuating the question with another harsh slap of his hips. "Leave ragged lines all over, spots of blood here and there?"

Geralt's nails dug further into his thighs in response.

"Or do you want to be more deliberate? Would you come at me with a blade, hmm? Carve little perfect slices into me, ones that would heal over flawlessly, invisibly, so that no one would be able to tell what you'd done? So that it would be our terrible secret? So that I'd have to bear the shame of your assault with the proof gone in just a few days?"

Geralt's cock gave a hardy twitch inside him.

Jaskier leaned down, placed his bound hands above Geralt's head on the bedroll to whisper in his ear as he thrust. Geralt's hips canted upwards, making sure Jaskier could still ride him hard. 

"I _know_ you'd bite me. You liked it when my nipple bled, when my shoulder bled. You bit my neck earlier, but not hard enough to draw blood. You wanted to, though, didn’t you? That's what you like best, isn't it? Your beautiful pearly teeth cutting into me, staining red. Because you want to taste me--like an animal. Like a _fucking_ unthinking _animal_."

Beneath him, Geralt shivered. His big hands roamed to Jaskier's hips, pulling at them, now thrusting up to meet Jaskier's harsh downward motion.

"Perhaps you don't _want_ to hide the evidence of your crimes? Perhaps you want to leave wounds deep enough to scar. To _bite_ deep enough..."

Geralt made a sharp, surprised sound. He hid his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck, took a deep, shuddering breath. 

"Do you want to mark me? Forever?" Jaskier crooned. "So that every time I catch a glimpse in the glass, I'm reminded of you? Of how I can never escape you?"

A deep moan preceded lips on his neck. Then teeth--a gentle scrape.

"With a scar I'd know--always--that you could come for me at any moment. I'd finally understand that I'm at your mercy. Only safe when you allow my safety. In pain when you desire my pain."

Geralt's teeth clamped down, held firm. But the skin remained unbroken.

Pleasure shot straight from the bite down Jaskier's spine and into his groin. "Do it," he whispered. 

Geralt whimpered in response.

"Mark me," Jaskier hissed. Gods, if he'd just bite hard enough, Jaskier would come.

Geralt rammed his hips upward, fucking into Jaskier with rough abandon.

"Harder. Bite me _harder_."

The barest hint of more pressure.

"I want to bleed for you."

The sob of desire that seeped from Geralt was pained.

"Do it," Jaskier demanded. "Do it, Geralt. I know you want to. You want to so badly--just take it. Take me. Tear me. _Claim me_."

Geralt released his neck with a gasp. " _No_ ," he rasped, his voice strained, as though it killed him to say it.

" _Yes_ ," Jaskier countered. 

Their rhythm did not falter.

"Not now," Geralt said, in the same tone he'd pleaded with Jaskier not to ask for his never-offered backside. "Not tonight. Not like this."

"Yes. _Now_."

" _No_ ," Geralt barked against Jaskier's neck.

"I'll already have bite marks in the morning, what's one more? Make it count. Make it _stay_. I want it to stay."

"You don't know what you're asking. I won't _scar_ you, fuck--"

"You _want_ to scar me. You want to savage me and be able to look later--months, _years_ later--and see the evidence of what you've done."

Geralt said nothing, but Jaskier could hear his teeth grinding.

"You have so many scars from fighting monsters, don't I deserve a souvenir for battling with yours?"

"Shut _up_ ," Geralt demanded, the distress in his voice colored through with just the right amount of lust. His hands tightened on Jaskier's unrelenting hips.

"Do it."

" _No_!"

" _Fuck you_ ," Jaskier snapped angrily. "Gods-damned coward. Rile me up with promises of pain and then give me none of it. I want you to _mark me_. I don't want to be able to forget for one moment that I've had you inside me."

"You won't forget," Geralt growled, voice finally edging once more into darkness. "You'll never forget."

"Prove it. Don't let me forget. Don't let me."

Underneath his hazy lasciviousness, Jaskier knew what he was saying didn't half make sense. But it was like part of him worried this was a dream. Or that the potion might punish him in the end by stealing this night from his mind.

"Geralt, I don't want to forget. I want to feel you tomorrow."

"You will."

"I want to feel you for days."

Geralt swallowed past a knot of guilt, but still retained his Butcher's growl--"You _will_." 

"I don't believe you. Fuck me harder, or I won't believe you. Fuck me just like you've been dying to."

Geralt sucked in a sharp breath.

Jaskier felt the Witcher's muscles coil beneath him. "Geralt, _let the monster feed_."

Snarling, Geralt sat up. He pushed Jaskier off him with a stiff shove at his chest.

Jaskier fell awkwardly between Geralt's legs, come immediately sliding out of him, slicking his thighs.

Globs of it painted white streaks up and down Geralt's shaft.

But Jaskier didn't have more than a moment to admire the Witcher's spend-covered cock.

Seconds later Geralt was in his face, grabbing him, shoving him, twisting him around. He seized the back of Jaskier's neck, pushed down, made the bard plow the side of his face into the bedroll. His other hand jerked at Jaskier's hips, brought him onto his knees.

Head down, arse-up.

Jaskier's heart beat wildly. He gulped.

 _You asked for this_.

"If you want to be bred like a dog, _I will breed you like a dog_ ," Geralt spat.

The hand on Jaskier's neck moved to his hair, tugging firmly as Geralt sank into him in one harsh, fluid shove.

Jaskier cried out, tried to claw at the bedding beneath him, but his hands were trapped at his collar bone. 

What he'd thought of before as Geralt's best attempts at a brutal pace absolutely _paled_ in comparison to the rhythm he now set. The Witcher was no longer holding back, no longer reining in his strength, no longer reserved and calculated in his motions. 

Even when fighting, Geralt knew when to pull a punch, knew when to deliver a knock to the side instead of a teeth-shattering blow. When he thrust a sword, he only used the calculated force it required. He divided out his efforts, earmarked most of his energy for later, always assuming he'd need it.

This was different. 

This was manic.

Absolutely unrestrained.

Jaskier's insides numbed under the onslaught. The sharp hips against his arse felt like lashings from a leather strap, and he was sure his dick was going to burst through its bindings. What little blood he still had reserved for his brain flooded to his cock.

There was nothing he could do but ride out the sensations and turn off his mind.

Perfect.

Behind him, Geralt let out a long, harsh roar as he ravaged his bard--finally fucking him with all the violence worthy of the Butcher of Blaviken.

After a while, Jaskier's arms began to ache under him. Very slowly, he twisted his hands beneath his chest, forced them down his torso. He pushed towards his crotch until his fingertips made brief contact with the fabric choking his cock.

Then his empty mind provided him with one very obscure observation. He suddenly realized where the silky black fabric came from.

He'd seen the spool of it before, cut a length of it himself. After washing Geralt's hair, Jaskier had wrapped it in the Witcher's mane, using it to draw his pretty, precious locks out of his eyes.

It was the narrow bit of trimming Geralt always used to tie his hair back. 

Now it tied Jaskier.

For some reason, the realization was enough.

The intimacy of it was enough.

White hot embers of ecstasy erupted through his muscles, flashing in his mind, behind is eyes, like lightning. Followed by a rumbling, thunderous wave of satisfaction that sloshed back and forth, from his cock to his arse, up his spine and then back down his chest.

His dick spilled liquid fire over his fingers, his balls straining against the trim.

Jaskier's ears rang, as though he'd been struck.

He shouted, but could barely hear his own voice.

Hard fingers released his hip, dipped against his bound hands, gathering his come.

He expected to feel it smeared against his spine. Instead Geralt simply hummed, the way he did when he smelled--or _tasted_ \--something particularly to his liking.

And then the Witcher was grunting, breath hitching. Coming deep in Jaskier without missing a beat, thrusting through it.

And all Jaskier could do was clench his teeth and hold on.

#

Jaskier comes twice more like that--Geralt once--before the dreaded moment arrives.

He can feel himself softening, the bindings around his cock loosening.

Suddenly, he doesn’t want it to end. Doesn't want the potion to be gone.

When the potion is gone, Geralt will stop.

Geralt will stop, and...

Will he run?

"Don't stop," he starts to mumble. "Don't stop _don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tstop_..."

But Geralt senses the change in him, the tiredness suddenly catching up with him. His hips slow. The camp fire has died down--it's almost completely dark all around them. Geralt's voice is quiet in the night. "Jaskier?"

"Don’t stop."

"Jaskier..."

"I don't want it to be over."

Geralt's thrusting ceases.

Jaskier whimpers like a child.

Geralt starts to withdraw.

"No," Jaskier pleads. "Stay. Stay inside me."

"You need to rest. To sleep."

"Don’t leave me. I don't want to be empty. Don't go."

Geralt pets his hair, runs gentle fingers over Jaskier's cheek.

"Geralt, _please_."

Keeping his cock seated, Geralt loops his arms around Jaskier's waist, rolls them both over, onto their sides. 

Spooning Jaskier, cock snug inside, Geralt fumbles with the bedding, finds a blanket--or maybe the other bedroll, the one they never got around to setting out, Jaskier is too dazed to tell--and pulls it over their naked forms.

"Rest," he mumbles against the bard's ear.

"I still want you," Jaskier says quickly, though he can feel sleep coming, stalking him, ready to claim him. "I love you."

Geralt kisses his temple. "Sleep."

"Don't leave me."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all, for trusting me through this. I got you. Just a little more angst, but I got you.

When Jaskier woke up, the first thing he noticed was how much his entire body _ached_. All of him. Not like a headache, or like a sharp pain, but a deep throb. He hadn't used his body--or had his body _used_ \--quite so _vigorously_ for as long as he could remember. Likely ever.

He was stiff, but not just his muscles and his joints--his skin was stiff where it was covered over in salves and bandages. He smelled of chamomile and something else, something acrid and medicinal. Every single cut, scrape, bite, and bruise had been tended to while he was asleep.

The dried come had been scrubbed from his body. Even his fingernails felt clean. And his arse...it was clear a wet rag and plenty of ointment had been applied there, too.

Jaskier was propped on his side, near the edge of the bedroll. The scent of ashes wafting into his face told him he was facing the dead fire. He cracked open one eye, saw the waterskin, an apple, a chunk of bread, and a pot of something--probably more salve--placed within easy reach.

It was early morning. The misty-magic of the dawn hours clung to the hills, made everything feel crisp and spring-like. Song birds tweeted out their morning greetings. 

Jaskier's mind was dreamy. Groggy.

"Geralt?" he croaked--voice sleep-rough and scream-rough. He reached behind himself (his bindings were gone), fingers expecting to fall on a hard hip or firm arm.

They met empty air.

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, needing to confirm with his eyes what his hands already knew.

Geralt wasn't lying next to him.

Rubbing at his sleep-crusted lashes with the backs of his knuckles, Jaskier propped himself up on one elbow, glancing around camp. 

No Geralt by the fire. Or by the saddle bags. 

No Witcher taking a piss in the scrub.

Jaskier's chest constricted.

No Witcher _at all_.

Geralt was gone.

Jaskier's heart _plummeted_. 

He sat bolt upright, suddenly unable to breathe lying down. He covered his mouth with one hand and pressed at his chest with the other.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

Every single detail of the previous day came rushing back to him in startling clarity. All of it, from the beginning.

 _Oh_ gods _, what have I done_?

Jaskier clutched at his chest hair, his throat, fingers frantically passing over the bandage that covered the bite mark on his shoulder.

 _What did I_ do? _How could I...? Oh fuck. Oh_ fuck.

 _Of course_ Geralt was gone.

Jaskier remembered everything he'd said to Geralt. All the things he'd tried to _make_ him do. How Geralt had kept telling him _no_ and he _hadn't listened_. 

Jaskier had bedded more people than he could rightfully be expected to count, but he'd never, not once, ever--ever, ever, _ever_ \--ignored a _no_.

Only the worst kind of man ignored a no.

 _You bastard_. _You fucking bastard, how could you do that to him_?

Of course Geralt hadn't stayed. Of course.

Jaskier dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

_I pressed on even after he told me to stop, and then I had the gall to tell him I love him_...

You don't treat people you love that way. 

Jaskier knew that. 

Geralt knew that.

It was the truth--that he loved him. But Geralt had every right to think Jaskier's declaration was a ruse. The Witcher might have allowed himself to use the confession as an excuse to give Jaskier what he needed, but...he couldn’t have actually _believed_ him, despite what he'd said.

How could he? What with the potion making Jaskier say everything under the sun to get Geralt to--?

To take advantage of him.

Shit. _Shit shit shit shit_ shit.

With the magic coursing through him, Jaskier's thoughts had been muddied. All the wants and requests were his--things he truly desired--but they'd exploded out of him in a ferocious mess. All of his inhibitions, obliterated. 

And Geralt had been the focus of that explosion.

The Witcher had _resisted_ and _resisted_ and _resisted_ and then he thought he'd _failed_ in the end. He thought he'd abused Jaskier.

Geralt had called himself--

 _Fuck_.

And, _gods_ , how Jaskier's _I love you_ must have hurt him. Geralt wasn't used to people telling him they loved him. For Jaskier to whip it out like a weapon, to use it as a means by which to cow him into submitting... For him to say it to Geralt while Geralt thought he was _harming_ him...

How could anyone be expected to stay after that? 

Roach whinnied. 

_Stupid horse, leave me to my heartache in peace_.

Geralt had understandably used Jaskier's tainted _I love you_ as a reason to leave and never look back. Jaskier couldn't blame him for it--the bard had done this to himself, to both of them, how could--?

Jaskier caught himself.

_Roach._

_Whinnied_.

There was no way Geralt would abandon him and leave Roach behind. There were things he'd give to Jaskier, but not Roach. Never Roach. 

Destiny itself couldn't rip his horse away.

Jaskier looked to where they'd tied the mare, followed the angle of her nose, towards the trees. 

Geralt walked out of the stand. He wore his trousers and medallion once again, but no shirt, and carried Jaskier's discarded boots in one hand, his torn breeches in the other. The Witcher froze when he caught Jaskier staring at him.

Jaskier sobbed in surprise. Tears prickled in the corners of his eyes.

He was still here.

He hadn't run away.

But he wasn't running _to_ Jaskier, either. He wasn't sweeping him up in his arms and peppering him with kisses. 

They were separated by mere meters, but the gulf between them felt wider than Jaskier could ever hope to bridge.

Geralt broke eye contact first, shaking his head, gaze falling to the ground as he clearly cursed at himself. He strode forward, steps slow, every movement openly communicated, as though he were afraid Jaskier would bolt if he shifted too quickly.

He stopped well out of arm's reach, set Jaskier's clothes down without looking at him. 

Jaskier wanted to throw himself at Geralt, to fling his arms around him. But that wasn't fair to Geralt. The Witcher had dealt with plenty of Jaskier's neediness already. The bard didn't have a right to ask for more.

The silence stretched between them.

Jaskier's ears started to buzz in the quiet. "You're... _you're still here_ ," he said eventually, breathlessly, reining in his emotions the best he could, trying not to sound like a small boy who wanted to weep.

Geralt let out a shaky breath. "Tell me to leave, and I will."

"What? N--"

"I tried," Geralt said gruffly, finally raising his eyes. They were hot and red-rimmed. "I _tried_. I told myself I'd leave you alone after you fell asleep. But I was exhausted. I decided I'd go after I slept. But when I woke, I couldn't leave you covered in my...in our...I had to clean you. And I had to see to your scrapes, your--" he swallowed thickly-- "your injuries. I still thought I had time, before you woke up, so I wanted to retrieve your clothes for you." He gestured listlessly at the pile, his eyes falling to it. "I didn't want you to have to see me at all. But your clothes...I'm sorry they're torn...that I... I tore...from..." His voice grew heavy, his tongue stumbled.

Jaskier's breathing was shallow, his fingers trembled against the bedding. "Geralt..."

Geralt's gaze snapped to his, eyes blazing, jaw tight with self-hatred. "Gods damnit, Jaskier-- _I tore your fucking clothes off you before I_ fucked _you!_ " he shouted. " _Tell me to leave_. I need you to tell me to do it. I don't want to, so I need you to make me. Tell me to go. Tell me to leave you alone. Tell me you never want to see me again, _tell me_ \--"

While Geralt raged, Jaskier shook his head emphatically. "No. _Stop_. Geralt, shut up. _Stop it!"_

Geralt's lip trembled. He stopped shouting, eyeing Jaskier both wearily and warily.

"Geralt, I need you." Jaskier held out his hand, fingers stretched in invitation. "I already told you I'd tell you to stay. Stay."

A glint of hope came into Geralt's eye, but he didn't move.

"Stay. Stay with me."

"Jaskier, what I did to you--"

"You didn't do anything I didn't want."

Geralt's eyebrows bowed in grief-laced relief. But he remained rooted to the spot.

"And I still want you. Now. With me." Jaskier wiggled his outstretched hand. "Come here. Come to me."

Geralt took a deep, ragged breath, emotion making his lungs hitch. Clearly he hadn't even allowed himself to _imagine_ Jaskier would still want him near.

Slowly, he stepped closer, slipping his fingers into Jaskier's offered hand, falling to his knees beside the naked bard on the bedroll. Hesitantly, he cupped Jaskier's jaw, brushed his thumb over Jaskier's cheek, searching his eyes--obviously trying to divine if Jaskier's bid for him to stay was something done out of obligation, disgrace, or a sense of loyalty, rather than a genuine desire for his company.

Jaskier's free hand came up as well. He wanted to touch. He wanted to touch Geralt bodily, to embrace him, but he wasn't sure if Geralt was ready for that. So he fidgeted, taking a lock of Geralt's hair by the ends and turning it over between his fingers. 

They were both quiet for a long few minutes, letting the anger and the fear and the worry start to bleed away. Letting themselves breathe in each other's presence, both wanting nothing more than for the other to be alright.

"Jaskier," Geralt said eventually, voice still shaky, but far more level than before. "What I allowed myself to do to you, even if--"

The bard squeezed Geralt's hand all the tighter. "What you _allowed_ yourself to do to _me_?" he asked incredulously. "What about what I did to _you_? Geralt, you didn't force yourself on me. I... _I_ forced myself on _you_."

Geralt let out a little huff of a laugh. The sound was strained--still edged by the sadness that had haunted him while the bard slept--but being permitted near Jaskier was clearly a fast-working balm. "Hate to tell you, but there's no way you could suitably _force me_ to do anything."

"Whether or not I could physically succeed is not how one intrinsically measures the morality of such behavior."

"Jaskier--"

"Gods, Geralt. I treated you like you were my _whore_. Like I'd already paid you all my coin and had exactly zero regards for your feelings or desires. The way I demanded, the way I pushed your hand, tried to make you touch me, even before you so much as indicated you wanted to--to--"

"Pound your arse into oblivion?"

"Well that's a rather colorful way of putting it, but _yes_. And then I mounted you-- _several times_ \--even after you told me _no_. I tried to take you, I tried to... This whole time you were so concerned with my consent, and I never once had a lick of consideration for yours. I commanded you to do things, I _manipulated_ you, I accused you of unspeakable acts--"

"It was the potion," Geralt said with the smallest of shrugs. "Not your fault."

"No, no--I'm not done self-deprecating yet. You get to do it all the time, no reason I shouldn't have a go."

"Jas--"

"No, Geralt, I won't hear of it. You don't get to forgive me as quickly as all that."

"There's nothing to forgive."

"My behavior was appalling."

"Your behavior was _appealing_ ," Geralt countered. He quirked his lip, releasing Jaskier's face in favor of holding his hip. He gently splayed his hand over the exposed skin, thumb still working, circling.

"Oh, so that's how it is? We both spent the night suffering over what the hell sort of bastardized shape we were wrenching our friendship into when both of us could have been having the time of our lives from the get-go?"

"There are things I wouldn't have...confessed to you...from the get-go." Geralt raised his chin a little higher, his usual confidence returning to him now that Jaskier was close--now that Jaskier wasn't running in fear. Now that Jaskier was permitting him to _touch_. "I never would have told you about the monster if--"

"I'm glad you did," Jaskier interrupted softly. "I meant what I said, that I... I like your fantasies."

"Hmm," Geralt rumbled.

"I like them very much. And If I have my way--" He looked up at Geralt through his lashes-- "We'll feed the monster _extremely well_ indeed."

Geralt's grip on Jaskier's hip involuntarily tightened.

The bard hissed.

Startled, Geralt let go.

"It's--I'm fine," Jaskier said hurriedly. "Bruises are still fresh is all, but don't you dare use that as an excuse to keep your distance. Come back."

Geralt carefully set his hand back into place.

Jaskier marveled at how Geralt simply obeyed. "Do you trust the things I said, now?" he asked lightly. "That everything I said I wanted, I wanted? Do you believe me?"

The Witcher's face was unreadable as he considered. "I believe you," he said quietly. "Although, you did have one demand that stretches credulity. I can't believe you asked me to _scar_ you," Geralt said frankly. "The audacity."

Jaskier let his mouth fall open in mock offense. "You--you want to talk about _audacity_? I can't _believe_ you tried to break your unbreakable promise. I begged you to stay, and still you thought you'd walk away, you scallywag," he laughed lightly, punching Geralt playfully in the shoulder. 

Geralt's face remained serious. "I... I can't believe you told me you love me."

Jaskier's little smile fell. He couldn't tell how Geralt felt about the notion. "You can't believe I said it, or you don’t believe I meant it?"

"You love me." It wasn't a question.

"I...do."

"You _love_ me," Geralt said again, voice gravely, half a tease.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, don't go getting all big-headed about it. I'm not looking for sweet declarations of everlasting...whatever. I wouldn't make a husband of you, Geralt--certainly would never ask you for something as petty and restrictive as your fidelity. Monogamy would suit neither of us. Fuck all the sorceresses you like. Or sorcerers, for that matter."

Geralt's face turned fond, clearly recognizing Jaskier's attempts at minimizing the importance of what he'd confessed. "What is it, then?" he asked, "That you want?"

Jaskier dropped his gaze to Geralt's chest, ran his fingers absently through the coarse curls of hair there, skimming past the chain holding his medallion. "I told you. To be near you. That's all, I swear. I don't need the trappings that usually come with...what's expected when...when you're in love with someone. I know you. You know me. We're different than all that."

"Jaskier, I--"

He placed a finger over Geralt's lips, shutting him up quickly. "You don’t have to say anything. Pretty words mean nothing to me."

Geralt quirked an eyebrow. "Pretty words mean _everything_ to you," he mumbled against his finger. 

Jaskier smiled at him. "I like _spinning_ the pretty words. I like arranging them for you, dedicating them to you. You deserve so many songs, so many sonnets. But that's not how you..." Jaskier dropped his hands into his lap.

"How I what?"

"When _you_ care about something, you don't say so. You... _do_ things. You give things."

"Hmm," Geralt said, face pleasantly at ease. "And what shall I give you? To prove my affections?"

"Your 'affections'?"

Geralt nodded. "My affections."

Jaskier looked away, blushing. "You gave me plenty last night." 

"Hmm."

Jaskier remembered something, then. A thing that had struck him as odd the night before, but not nearly important enough to comment on at the time. "You _can_ answer me one question, though."

"Yes?"

"I've seen you light a campfire more than a hundred times. But never like that. Why didn't you use igni to start the fire? You used flint."

Geralt pursed his lips. "I needed...I needed something to do. Something to focus on that wasn't _you_. Because when I first laid you down, I nearly...I didn't want to wait. To pause for the oil. I didn't want to _waste time_ preparing you. I nearly couldn't keep myself from descending on you like a gods-damned vulture. I needed a distraction. A chance to center myself."

"So no igni."

Geralt nodded. "No igni."

"Well. Let's just say I'm glad you decided to forfeit that particular convenience, or else you might never have told me your little, um, _secret_ there. The whole, _giving me your lovely bottom if I'd asked for it_ thing."

He held his breath, half expecting Geralt to take it back.

Geralt simply raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Jaskier asked.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to ask?"

"What, _now_? My dear Wolf, if I am going to bed you like that, I am not going to do it in the middle of nowhere with both of us in dire need of a proper bath, bones aching, water nearly gone, nothing but a thin bedroll for you to brace your knees on--"

"Why not? It was good enough for you."

"We both know that even without a sex potion I would do it in the middle of an active battlefield if I thought I could get my rocks off and away with my life. You, on the other hand, make due with rough and tumble because you think you don't need any better, but I am certainly not going to fill your first time with minor miseries for the sake of getting you beneath me as soon as possible, no sir."

"Right then," Geralt said, standing abruptly. "Better break camp."

Jaskier was caught off guard, worried he'd inadvertently offended the Witcher. "I'm not--I'm not rejecting your offer," he said quickly, standing as well--completely unprepared for the protest in his knees and wobble of his muscles. 

Geralt caught him, supported him. "What I heard," Geralt purred, "Was that if I want to be taken properly, I need to get us someplace with a bed and a bath. Hot meals. Plenty of drinking water."

"Clearly labeled water, if you don't mind."

"Hmm." He moved to step around Jaskier.

The bard stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Wait."

"What?"

"Kiss me first."

Geralt smiled, noticing the echo of the exchange they'd had yesterday. "Why?"

"Because you can't break camp today wearing the same expression you'd wear any other morning. We had an absolutely magnificent, torturous night of brutal and _exhausting_ love making--yes, I _did_ notice you tried to go all soft and make love to me, you _bastard_ \--and if that doesn't earn a man a good-morning kiss, then I don't--"

Geralt swallowed the end of Jaskier's sentence.

There was nothing hurried about the kiss--none of the franticness previously brought on by the potion. Geralt's tongue slid sensuously--almost _lazily_ \--along Jaskier's.

They both hummed into it, eyes closed, fully enjoying themselves.

It was long minutes before they pulled apart.

"Did that appease you?" Geralt asked with the slightest of smiles.

" _Appease_ me?" Jaskier gasped. "Good gods, as though it's such a chore for you, Butcher, to--"

Geralt's eyes blazed suddenly, face hardening. _Darkening_.

Jaskier's eyebrows shot into his hairline. He held out a staying hand, took a step back. "No, no--slip of the tongue. Geralt, I am going to need quite a few days of down time before I'm ready to meet the Butcher again. Geralt--"

Geralt took a menacing step into Jaskier's space, but he didn't look like the Butcher of the night before. There was too much mirth in his eyes. 

He hooked Jaskier around the neck with the crook of his elbow, pulled him down, made him bend at the waist so he could crudely ruffle the bard's hair.

Jaskier laughed, shoving at the arm that held him--it was unmovable as stone. The fingers in his hair shifted to his armpit, tickling. He squirmed with nowhere to go. His sides ached as he tried to breathe.

"I relent, I relent," Jaskier wheezed. " _V-Valdo Marx_."

Geralt immediately released him. "Good," he praised, eyes shining. "Just checking." He was happier than Jaskier had seen him in a long time. "Now, clothes. The sooner we're on the road the sooner we find you a soft place to rest that bruised backside of yours."

Jaskier whined, suddenly remembering. "It's _miles_ to the next town."

Geralt nodded. "Unfortunately."

Jaskier couldn't move with his usual sprightliness as they prepped, but Geralt made no complaints. The bard threw his torn trousers in with his bloody chemise and soiled blue doublet, not quite ready to dispose of his ruined clothes from either incident. Two curses in three days, what were the odds?

This left him with exactly one full set of clothing in his pack--regal purple--and he silently prayed that nothing would happen to them between here and the next proper city. He pulled the outfit on with as much haste as he could muster.

Geralt adorned himself in his full armor once more, sans gloves.

After eating a bite and swapping the last of the water between them, they piled everything on Roach and set off. Geralt led his horse by the reins, walking in sympathy with Jaskier, who couldn't ride now even if Geralt had permitted it.

They were both quiet as they went. Tired from their activities, their confessions, their emotional whip-lash. 

Tired, but happy. 

As they walked, Jaskier eyed Geralt's hand--the one not on the reins. The bard fidgeted with the strap keeping his lute on his back, wondering if it would be silly to reach for the Witcher's hand--to hold it while they traveled.

"What's the matter now?" Geralt asked, not unkindly.

"Nothing," Jaskier said sheepishly.

Geralt looked at him sidelong, raised a knowing eyebrow. "It's never 'nothing' with you." He reached out, placing that hand on the nape of Jaskier's neck, pulling him close, thumb rubbing affectionately. "Better?" he asked slyly.

Jaskier's heart fluttered, less like the caged bird it had been the night before and more like a butterfly gently flitting from flower to flower. "Better," he said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for sticking with me all the way through my little experiment with erotic-tension and sexy-tears. 
> 
> If you were looking forward to bottom!Geralt: Never fear! I currently have two sequel fics in mind: Geralt's first time bottoming, and another where they get to indulge in their non-con role play without any doubts between them (I don't expect either fic to be as long as this one, but we'll see. (ETA: I should stop making word-count related promises)). 
> 
> In keeping with the "My Strange Addiction" song theme, Bottom!Geralt will be titled "Burns Like a Gin (And I Like It)," (ETA: This one is up, and is complete!) non-con role play will be titled "I'm the Powder, You're the Fuse."


End file.
